THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 

JIM  TULLY 

GIFT  OF 
MRS.  JIM  TULLY 


.    ... 


fi 


yyj  Plymouth  Court 


THE  RAT- PIT 


PATRICK  MACGILL 


THE 

RAT-PIT 


BY 

PATRICK 
MACGILL 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1915, 
Br  GEOBQB  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


/Jf 


INTRODUCTION 

IN  the  city  of  Glasgow  there  is  a  lodging-house  for 
women  known  as  "The  Rat-pit."  Here  the  va- 
grant can  get  a  nightly  bunk  for  a  few  pence, 
and  no  female  is  refused  admittance:  the  unfortunate, 
the  sick,  and  work-weary  congregate  under  the  same 
roof,  breathe  the  same  fetid  air  and  forget  the  troubles 
of  a  miserable  existence  in  strong  drink,  the  solace  of 
the  sorrowful,  or  in  heavy  stupor,  the  slumber  of  the 
toilworn.  The  underworld,  of  which  I  have  seen  and 
known  such  a  lot,  has  always  appeared  to  me  as  a 
Greater  Rat-pit,  where  human  beings,  pinched  and 
poverty-stricken  and  ground  down  with  a  weight  of 
oppression,  are  hemmed  up  like  the  plague-stricken  in 
a  pest-house. 

It  is  in  this  larger  sense  that  I  have  chosen  the  name 
for  the  title  of  Norah  Ryan's  story.  By  committing  the 
"great  sin"  and  subsequently  by  allowing  the  dictates 
of  motherhood  to  triumph  over  decrees  of  society,  she 
became  a  pariah  eternally  doomed  to  the  Greater  Rat-pit. 
Whilst  my  former  book,  "Children  of  the  Dead  End," 
was  on  the  whole  accepted  as  giving  a  picture  of  the 
life  of  the  navvy,  there  were  some  who  refused  to  be- 
lieve that  scenes  such  as  I  strove  to  depict  could  exist 
in  a  country  like  ours.  To  them  I  venture  the  assurance 
that  "The  Rat-pit"  is  a  transcript  from  life  and  that 
most  of  the  characters  are  real  people,  and  the  scenes 
only  too  poignantly  true.  Some  may  think  that  such 
things  should  not  be  written  about;  but  public  opinion, 
like  the  light  of  day,  is  a  great  purifier,  and  to  hide  a 

5 

862348 


6  Introduction 

sore  from  the  surgeon's  eye  out  of  miscalled  delicacy  is 
surely  a  supreme  folly. 

A  word  about  "Children  of  the  Dead  End."  I  am 
highly  gratified  by  the  success  attained  by  that  book  in 
Britain  and  abroad.  Only  in  Ireland,  my  native  country, 
has  the  book  given  offence.  Reviewers  there  spoke  an- 
grily about  it,  and  one  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  I 
would  end  my  days  by  blowing  out  my  brains  with  a 
revolver.  The  reference  to  a  tyrannical  village  priest 
gave  great  offence  to  a  number  of  clergy,  but  on  the 
other  hand  several  wrote  to  me  speaking  very  highly  of 
the  book,  and  I  have  been  told  that  a  Roman  Catholic 
Bishop  sat  up  all  night  to  read  it.  In  my  own  place  I 
am  looked  upon  with  suspicion,  all  because  I  "wrote  a 
book,  a  bad  one  makin'  fun  of  the  priest,"  as  an  old  coun- 
tryman remarked  to  me  last  summer  when  I  was  at  home. 
"You  don't  like  it,  then?"  I  said.  "Like  it!  I  wouldn't 
read  it  for  a  hundred  pounds,  money  down,"  was  the 
answer. 

PATRICK  MACGILL. 

London  Irish, 
St.  Albans. 
Feb.  5th,  1915.  . 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I.  THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE 

II.  AN  UNSUCCESSFUL  JOURNEY    . 

III.  ON  DOOEY  HEAD    .... 

IV.  RESTLESS  YOUTH    .... 
V.  GOOD  NEWS  FROM  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

VI.  SCHOOL  LIFE 

VII.  PLUCKING  BOG-BINE 

VIII.  THE  TRAGEDY         .... 

IX.  THE  WAKE 

X.  COFFIN  AND  Com  .... 

XL  THE  TRAIN  FROM  GREENANORE 

XII.  DERRY   .         .         .    ,     . 

XIII.  A  WILD  NIGHT       .... 

XIV.  "BEYOND  THE  WATER"  . 

XV.  DRUDGERY 

XVI.  LITTLE  LOVES         .... 

XVII.  A  GAME  OF  CARDS 

XVIII.  IN  THE  LANE 

XIX.  THE  END  OF  THE  SEASON 

XX.  ORIGINAL  SIN          .... 

XXI.  REGRETS 

XXII.  ON  THE  ROAD         .... 

XXIII.  COMPLICATIONS       -.         .         .         . 

XXIV.  THE  RAT-PIT          .        .        .  '     . 
XXV.  SHEILA  CARROL       .... 

XXVI.  THE  PASSING  DAYS 

XXVII.  THE  NEW-COMER    .... 

7 


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126 

137 
H7 
157 
162 
170 
179 
188 

197 
202 

213 

222 
230 
240 
246 


8 


Contents 


CHAPTER 

XXVIII.  THE  RAG-STORE      . 

XXIX.  DERMOD  FLYNN 

XXX.  GROWN  UP     ... 

XXXI.  DESPAIR 

XXXII.  CONFESSION    . 

XXXIII.  ST.  JOHN  VIII,  I-II 

XXXIV.  LONGINGS       . 
XXXV.  THE  FAREWELL  MEETING 


PAGE 
251 
262 
272 
286 
294 
303 
309 
315 


THE   RAT-PIT 


THE  RAT-PIT 

CHAPTER   I 

THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE 


HAVE  you  your  brogues,  Norah  ?" 
"They're  tied  round  my  shoulders  with  a 
string,  mother." 

"And  your  brown  penny  for  tea  and  bread  in  the  town, 
Norah?" 

"It's  in  the  corner  of  my  weasel-skin  purse,  mother." 

"The  tide  is  long  on  the  turn,  so  you'd  better  be  off, 
Norah." 

"I'm  off  and  away,  mother." 

Two  voices  were  speaking  inside  a  cabin  on  the  coast  of 
Donegal.  The  season  was  mid-winter ;  the  time  an  hour 
before  the  dawn  of  a  cheerless  morning.  Within  the 
hovel  there  was  neither  light  nor  warmth ;  the  rushlight 
had  gone  out  and  the  turf  piled  on  the  hearth  refused  to 
burn.  Outside  a  gale  was  blowing,  the  door,  flimsy  and 
fractured,  creaked  complainingly  on  its  leathern  hinges, 
the  panes  of  the  foot-square  and  only  window  were 
broken,  the  rags  that  had  taken  their  places  had  been 
blown  in  during  the  night,  and  the  sleet  carried  by  the 
north-west  wind  struck  heavily  on  the  earthen  floor.  In 
the  corner  of  the  hut  a  woman  coughed  violently,  expend- 
ing all  the  breath  in  her  body,  then  followed  a  struggle 
for  air,  for  renewed  life,  and  a  battle  against  sickness  or 

ii 


12  The  Rat-Pit 

death  went  on  in  the  darkness.  There  was  silence  for  a 
moment,  then  a  voice,  speaking  in  Gaelic,  could  be  heard 
again. 

"Are  you  away,  Norah?" 

"I  am  just  going,  mother.  I  am  stopping  the  window 
to  keep  the  cold  away  from  you." 

"God  bless  you,  child,"  came  the  answer.  "The  men 
are  not  coming  in  yet,  are  they?" 

"I  don't  hear  their  step.  Now  the  window  is  all  right. 
Are  you  warm?" 

"Middling,  Alannah.  Did  you  take  the  milk  for  your 
breakfast?" 

"I  left  some  for  you  in  the  jug,"  came  the  reply.  "Will 
you  take  it  now?" 

"That  is  always  the  way  with  you,  Norah,"  said  the 
woman  in  a  querulous  voice.  "You  never  take  your  meals, 
but  always  leave  them  for  somebody  else.  And  you  are 
getting  thinner  on  it  every  day.  I  don't  want  anything, 
for  I  am  not  hungry  these  days;  and  maybe  it  is  God 
Himself  that  put  the  sickness  on  me  so  that  I  would  not 
take  away  the  food  of  them  that  needs  it  more  than  I  do. 
Drink  the  milk,  Norah,  it  will  do  you  good." 

There  was  no  answer.  A  pale-faced  little  girl  lifted  the 
latch  of  the  door  and  looked  timorously  out  into  the  cold 
and  the  blackness.  The  gale  caught  her  and  for  a  moment 
she  almost  choked  for  breath.  It  was  still  intensely  dark, 
no  colour  of  the  day  was  yet  in  the  sky.  The  wind  whis- 
tled shrilly  round  the  corners  of  the  cabin  and  a  storm- 
swept  bird  dropped  to  the  ground  in  front  of  the  child. 
She  looked  back  into  the  gloomy  interior  of  the  cabin  and 
for  a  moment  thought  of  returning.  She  was  very  hun- 
gry, but  remembered  her  father  and  brother  who  would 
presently  come  in  from  the  fishing,  probably,  as  they  had 
come  in  for  days,  with  empty  boats  and  empty  stomachs. 
Another  fit  of  coughing  seized  the  mother,  and  the  girl 


The  Turn  of  the  Tide  13 

went  out,  shutting  the  door  carefully  behind  her  to  stay 
the  wrath  of  the  wind  which  swept  violently  across  the 
floor  of  the  house. 

The  sea  was  near.  The  tide,  sweeping  sullenly  away 
from  the  shore,  moaned  plaintively  near  the  land  and 
swelled  into  loud  discordant  wrath,  far  out  at  the  bar.  All 
round  the  house  a  tremulous  gray  haze  enveloped  every- 
thing, and  the  child  stole  into  its  mysterious  bosom  and 
towards  the  sea.  The  sleet  shot  sharply  across  her  body 
and  at  times  she  turned  round  to  save  her  face  from  its 
stinging  lash.  She  was  so  small,  so  frail,  so  tender  that 
she  might  be  swept  away  at  any  moment  as  she  moved 
like  a  shadow  through  the  greyness,  keeping  a  keen  look- 
out for  the  ghosts  that  peopled  the  mists  and  the  lonely 
places.  Of  these  phantoms  she  was  assured.  To  her  they 
were  as  true  as  her  own  mother,  as  her  own  self.  They 
were  around  and  above  her.  They  hid  in  the  mists,  walked 
on  the  sea,  roved  in  the  fields,  and  she  was  afraid  of  them. 

Suddenly  she  called  to  mind  the  story  of  the  Lone 
Woman  of  the  Mist,  the  ghost  whom  all  the  old  people  of 
the  locality  had  met  at  some  time  or  another  in  their  lives. 
Even  as  she  thought,  an  apparition  took  form,  a  lone 
woman  stood  in  front  of  the  little  girl,  barely  ten  paces 
away.  The  child  crossed  herself  seven  times  and  walked 
straight  ahead,  keeping  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  figure  that 
barred  the  path.  This  was  the  only  thing  to  be  done; 
under  the  steady  look  of  the  eyes  a  ghost  is  powerless. 
So  her  mother  had  told  her,  and  the  girl,  knowing  this, 
never  lowered  her  gaze;  but  her  bare  feet  got  suddenly 
warm,  her  heart  leapt  as  if  wanting  to  leave  her  body, 
and  the  effort  to  restrain  the  tremor  of  her  eyelids  caused 
her  pain.  The  ghost  spoke. 

"Who  is  the  girsha  *  that  is  out  so  early?"  came  the 
question. 

*  Girsha,  girl. 


14  The  Rat-Pit 

"It's  me,  Norah  Ryan,"  answered  the  child  in  a  glad 
voice.  "I  thought  that  ye  were  the  Lone  Woman  of  the 
Mist  or  maybe  a  beanshee."  * 

"I'm  not  the  beanshee,  I'm  the  beansho,"  t  the  woman 
replied  in  a  sharp  voice.  "D'ye  know  what  that 
means  ?" 

"It  means  that  ye  are  the  woman  I'm  not  to  have  the 
civil  word  with  because  ye've  committed  a  great  sin." 

"Who  said  that?    Was  it  yer  mother?" 

"Then  it  was,"  said  the  child,  "I  often  heard  her  say 
them  words." 

"D'ye  know  me  sin  then?"  enquired  the  woman,  and 
without  waiting  for  an  answer  she  went  on :  "Ye  don't, 
of  course.  This  is  me  sin,  girsha ;  this  is  me  sin.  Look 
at  it!" 

The  woman  loosened  the  shawl  which  was  drawn 
tightly  around  her  body  and  disclosed  a  little  bullet- 
headed  child  lying  fast  asleep  in  her  arms.  The  wind 
caught  the  sleeper ;  one  tiny  hand  quivered  in  mute  pro- 
test, then  the  infant  awoke  and  roared  loudly.  The 
mother  kissed  the  wee  thing  hastily,  fastened  the  shawl 
again  and  strode  forward,  taking  long  steps  like  a  man, 
towards  the  sea.  She  was  bare-footed ;  her  feet  made  a 
rustling  sound  on  the  snow  and  two  little  furrows  lay  be- 
hind her.  Norah  Ryan  followed  and  presently  the  older 
woman  turned  round. 

"That's  me  sin,  girsha,  that's  me  sin,"  she  said.  "That's 
a  sin  that  can  never  be  undone.  Mind  that  and  mind  it 
always.  .  .  .  Ye'll  be  goin'  into  the  town,  I  suppose?" 

"That  I  am,"  said  the  child.  "Is  the  tide  full  on  the 
run  now?" 

"It's  nearly  out.  See!  the  sky  is  clearin'  a  bit;  and 
look  it!  there's  some  stars." 

*  Beanshee,  a  fairy  woman.    (Bean,  a  woman;  shee,  a  fairy.) 
t  Beansho,  "That  woman."    (A  term  of  reproach.) 


The  Turn  of  the  Tide  15 

"I  don't  like  the  stars,  good  woman,  for  they're  always 
so  cold  lookin'." 

"Yes,  they're  middlin'  like  to  goodly  people,"  said  the 
woman.  "There,  we're  near  the  sea  and  the  greyness  is 
risin'  off  it." 

The  woman  lifted  her  hand  and  pointed  to  the  rocky 
shore  that  skirted  the  bay.  At  first  sight  it  appeared  to 
be  completely  deserted ;  nothing  could  be  seen  but  the 
leaden  grey  sea  and  the  sharp  and  jagged  rocks  protrud- 
ing through  the  snow  that  covered  the  shore.  The  tide 
was  nearly  out ;  the  east  was  clearing,  but  the  wind  still 
lashed  furiously  against  the  legs  and  faces  of  the  woman 
and  the  girl. 

"I  suppose  there'll  be  a  lot  waitin'  for  the  tide,"  said 
Norah  Ryan.  "And  a  cold  wait  it'll  be  for  them  too,  on 
this  mornin'  of  all  mornin's." 

"It's  God's  will,"  said  the  woman  with  the  child,  "God's 
will,  the  priest's  will,  and  the  will  of  the  yarn  seller." 
She  spoke  sharply  and  resentfully  and  again  with  long 
strides  hurried  forward  to  the  shore. 

ii 

HOW  lifeless  the  scene  looked ;  the  hollows  white  with 
snow,  the  gale-swept  edges  of  the  rocks  darkly 
bare!  Norah  Ryan  stepping  timidly,  suddenly  shrieked 
as  her  foot  slipped  into  a  wreath  of  snow.  Under  her 
tread  something  moved,  the  snow  rose  into  the  air  as  if 
to  shake  itself,  then  fell  again  with  a  crackling  noise.  The 
girl  had  stepped  upon  a  sleeping  woman,  who,  now  rudely 
wakened,  was  afoot  and  angry. 

"Mercy  be  on  you,  child !"  roared  the  female  in  Gaelic, 
as  she  shook  the  frozen  flakes  from  the  old  woollen  hand- 
kerchief that  covered  her  head.  "Can  you  not  take  heed 
of  your  feet  and  where  you're  putting  them?" 


16  The  Rat-Pit 

"It's  the  child  that  didn't  see  ye,"  said  the  beansho, 
then  added  by  way  of  salutation :  "It's  cold  to  be  sleepin' 
out  this  mornin'." 

"It's  Norah  Ryan,  is  it  ?"  asked  the  woman,  still  shak- 
ing the  snow  from  her  head-dress.  "And  has  she  been 
along  with  you,  of  all  persons  in  the  world?" 

"Is  the  tide  out  yet  ?"  asked  a  voice  from  the  snow. 

A  face  like  that  of  a  sheeted  corpse  peered  up  into  the 
greyness,  and  Norah  Ryan  looked  at  it,  her  face  full  of  a 
fright  that  was  not  unmixed  with  childish  curiosity. 
There  in  the  white  snow,  some  asleep  and  some  staring 
vacantly  into  the  darkness,  lay  a  score  of  women,  some 
young,  some  old,  and  all  curled  up  like  sleeping  dogs. 
Nothing  could  be  seen  but  the  faces,  coloured  ghastly  sil- 
ver in  the  dim  light  of  the  slow  dawn,  faces  without  bod- 
ies staring  like  dead  things  from  the  welter  of  snow.  An 
old  woman  asleep,  the  bones  of  her  face  showing  plainly 
through  the  sallow  wrinkles  of  the  skin,  her  only  tooth 
protruding  like  a  fang  and  her  jaw  lowered  as  if  hung  by 
a  string,  suddenly  coughed.  Her  cough  was  wheezy,  weak 
with  age,  and  she  awoke.  In  the  midst  of  the  heap  of 
bodies  she  stood  upright  and  disturbed  the  other  sleepers. 
In  an  instant  the  hollow  was  alive,  voluble,  noisy.  Some 
of  the  women  knelt  down  and  said  their  prayers,  others 
shook  the  snow  from  their  shawls,  one  was  humming  a 
love  song  and  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  at  the  end  of 
every  verse. 

"I've  been  travelling  all  night  long,"  said  an  old  crone 
who  had  just  joined  the  party,  "and  I  thought  that  I 
would  not  be  in  time  to  catch  the  tide.  It  is  a  long  way 
that  I  have  to  come  for  a  bundle  of  yarn — sixteen  miles, 
and  maybe  it  is  that  I  won't  get  it  at  the  end  of  my 
journey." 

The  kneeling  women  rose  from  their  knees  and  hurried 
towards  the  channel  in  the  bay,  now  a  thin  string  of  water 


The  Turn  of  the  Tide  17 

barely  three  yards  in  width.  The  wind,  piercingly  cold, 
no  longer  carried  its  burden  of  sleet,  and  the  east,  icily 
clear,  waited,  almost  in  suspense,  for  the  first  tint  of  the 
sun.  The  soil,  black  on  the  foreshore,  cracked  underfoot 
and  pained  the  women  as  they  walked.  None  wore  their 
shoes,  although  three  or  four  carried  brogues  tied  round 
their  necks.  Most  had  mairteens  (double  thick  stockings) 
on  their  feet,  and  these,  though  they  retained  a  certain 
amount  of  body  heat,  kept  out  no  wet.  In  front  the  old 
woman,  all  skin  and  bones  and  more  bones  than  skin, 
whom  Norah  had  wakened,  led  the  way,  her  breath 
steaming  out  into  the  air  and  her  feet  sinking  almost  to 
the  knees  at  every  step.  From  her  dull,  lifeless  look  and 
the  weary  eyes  that  accepted  everything  with  fatalistic 
calm  it  was  plain  that  she  had  passed  the  greater  part  of 
her  years  in  suffering. 

All  the  women  had  difficulty  with  the  wet  and  shifty 
sand,  which,  when  they  placed  their  feet  heavily  on  one 
particular  spot,  rose  in  an  instant  to  their  knees.  They 
floundered  across,  pulling  out  one  foot  and  then  another, 
and  grunting  whenever  they  did  so.  Norah  Ryan,  the 
child,  had  little  difficulty;  she  glided  lightly  across,  her 
feet  barely  sinking  to  the  ankles. 

"Who'd  have  thought  that  one's  spags  could  be  so 
troublesome!"  said  the  beansho.  "It  almost  seems  like 
as  if  I  had  no  end  of  feet." 

"Do  you  hear  that  woman  speaking?"  asked  the  aged 
female  who  led  the  way.  "It's  ill  luck  that  will  keep  us 
company  when  she's  with  us :  her  with  her  back-of-the- 
byre  wean !" 

"You  shouldn't  fault  me  for  me  sin,"  said  the  beansho, 
who  overheard  the  remark,  for  there  was  no  effort  made 
to  conceal  it.  "No,  but  ye  should  be  thankful  that  it's  not 
yourself  that  carries  it." 

The  sun  was  nearing  the  horizon,  and  the  women,  now 


1 8  The  Rat-Pit 

on  the  verge  of  the  channel  (dhan,  they  called  it),  stood 
in  silence  looking  at  the  water.  It  was  not  at  its  lowest 
yet;  probably  they  would  have  to  wait  for  five  minutes, 
maybe  more.  And  as  they  wailed  they  came  closer  and 
closer  to  one  another  for  warmth. 

The  beansho  stood  a  little  apart  from  the  throng.  Al- 
though tall  and  angular,  she  showed  traces  of  good  looks 
which  if  they  had  been  tended  might  have  made  her  beau- 
tiful. But  now  her  lips  were  drawn  in  a  thin,  hard  line 
and  a  set,  determined  expression  showed  on  her  face. 
She  was  bare-footed  and  did  not  even  wear  mairteens, 
and  carried  no  brogues.  Her  sole  articles  of  dress  were 
a  shawl,  which  sufficed  also  for  her  child,  a  thick  petti- 
coat made  of  sackcloth,  a  chemise  and  a  blouse.  The 
wind  constantly  lifted  her  petticoat  and  exposed  her  bare 
legs  above  the  knees.  Some  of  the  women  sniggered  on 
seeing  this,  but  finally  the  beansho  tightened  her  petti- 
coat between  her  legs  and  thus  held  it  firmly. 

"That's  the  way,  woman,"  said  the  old  crone  who  led 
the  party.  "Hold  your  dress  tight,  tighter.  Keep  away 
from  the  beansho,  Norah  Ryan." 

The  child  looked  up  at  the  old  woman  and  smiled  as  a 
child  sometimes  will  when  it  fails  to  understand  the  pur- 
port of  words  that  are  spoken.  Then  her  teeth  chattered 
and  she  looked  down  at  her  feet,  which  were  bleeding, 
and  the  blood  could  be  seen  welling  out  through  the  mair- 
teens. She  shivered  constantly  from  the  cold  and  her 
face  was  a  little  drawn,  a  little  wistful,  and  her  grey  eyes, 
large  and  soft,  were  full  of  a  tender  pity.  Perhaps  the 
pity  was  for  her  mother  who  was  ill  at  home,  maybe  for 
the  beansho  whom  everyone  disliked,  or  maybe  for  her- 
self, the  little  girl  of  twelve,  who  was  by  far  the  youngest 
member  of  the  party. 


The  Turn  of  the  Tide  19 


in 


IT'S  time  that  we  were  tryin'  to  face  the  water  in  the 
name  of  God,"  said  one  of  the  women,  who  sup- 
ported herself  against  a  neighbour's  shoulder  whilst  she 
took  off  her  mairteens.  "There  is  low  tide  now." 

All  mairteens  were  taken  off,  and  raising  their  petti- 
coats well  up  and  tying  them  tightly  around  their  waists 
they  entered  the  water.  The  old  woman  leading  the 
party  walked  into  the  icy  sea  placidly ;  the  others  faltered 
a  moment,  then  stepped  in  recklessly  and  in  a  second  the 
water  was  well  up  to  their  thighs.  They  hurried  across 
shouting  carelessly,  gesticulating  violently  and  laughing 
loudly.  Yet  every  one  of  them,  with  the  possible  excep- 
tion of  the  woman  in  front,  was  on  the  borderland  of 
tears.  If  they  had  spoken  not  they  would  have  wept. 

Norah  Ryan,  who  was  the  last  to  enter  the  water, 
tucked  up  her  dress  and  cast  a  frightened  glance  at  those 
in  front.  No  one  observed  her.  She  lifted  the  dress 
higher  and  entered  the  icy  cold  stream  which  chilled  her 
to  the  bone.  At  each  successive  step  the  rising  water 
pained  her  as  a  knife  driven  into  the  flesh  might  pain  her. 
She  raised  her  eyes  and  noticed  a  woman  looking  back; 
instantly  Norah  dropped  her  clothes  and  the  hem  of  her 
petticoat  became  saturated  with  water. 

"What  are  ye  doin',  Norah  Ryan  ?"  the  woman  shouted. 
"Ye'll  be  wettin'  the  dress  that's  takin'  ye  to  the  town." 

The  child  paid  no  heed.  With  her  clothes  trailing  in 
the  stream  she  walked  across  breast  deep  to  the  other 
side.  Her  garments  were  soaked  when  she  landed.  The 
old  woman,  placid  fatalist,  was  pulling  on  her  mairteens 
with  skinny,  warty  hands ;  another  was  lacing  her 
brogues;  a  third  tied  a  rag  round  her  foot,  which  had 
been  cut  by  a  shell  at  the  bottom  of  the  channel. 


20  The  Rat-Pit 

"Why  did  ye  let  yer  clothes  drop  into  the  dhan?" 
croaked  the  old  woman.  She  asked  out  of  mere  curiosity ; 
much  suffering  had  driven  all  feeling  from  her  soul. 

"Why  d'ye  ask  that,  Maire  a  Crick  (Mary  of  the 
Hill)  ?"  enquired  the  beansho.  "It's  the  modest  girl 
that  she  is,  and  that's  why  she  let  her  clothes  down. 
Poor  child!  she'll  be  wet  all  day  now!" 

"Her  petticoat  is  full  of  water,"  said  Maire  a  Crick, 
tying  the  second  mairteen.  "If  many's  a  one  would  be 
always  as  modest  as  Norah  Ryan  they'd  have  no  burden 
in  their  shawls  this  day." 

"Ye're  a  barefaced  old  heifer,  Maire  a  Crick,"  said  the 
beansho  angrily.  "Can  ye  never  hold  yer  cuttin'  tongue 
quiet?  It's  good  that  ye  have  me  to  be  saying  the  evil 
word  against.  If  I  wasn't  here  ye'd  be  on  to  some  other 
body." 

"I'm  hearin'  that  Norah  Ryan  is  a  fine  knitter  entirely," 
someone  interrupted.  "She  can  make  a  great  penny  with 
her  needles.  Farley  McKeown  says  that  he  never  gave 
yarn  to  a  soncier  girl." 

"True  for  ye,  Biddy  Wor,"  said  Maire  a  Crick  grudg- 
ingly. "It's  funny  that  a  slip  of  a  girsha  like  her  can  do 
so  much.  I  work  meself  from  dawn  to  dusk,  and  long 
before  and  after,  and  I  cannot  make  near  as  much  as 
Norah  Ryan." 

"Neither  can  any  of  us,"  said  several  women  in  one 
breath. 

"She  only  works  about  fourteen  hours  every  day,  too," 
said  Biddy  Wor. 

"How  much  can  ye  make  a  day,  Norah  Ryan?"  asked 
the  beansho. 

"Three  ha'pence  a  day  and  nothing  less,"  said  the  girl, 
and  a  glow  of  pride  suffused  her  face. 

"Three  ha'pence  a  day!"  the  beansho  ejaculated, 
stooping  down  and  pulling  out  the  gritty  sand  which  had 


The  Turn  of  the  Tide  21 

collected  between  her  toes.  "Just  think  of  that,  and  her 
only  a  wee  slip  of  a  girl !" 

"That's  one  pound  nineteen  shillin's  a  year,"  said  Maire 
a  Crick  reflectively.  "She's  as  good  as  old  Maire  a  Glan 
(Mary  of  the  Glen)  of  Greenanore,  who  didn't  miss  a 
stitch  in  a  stockin'  and  her  givin'  birth  to  twins." 

The  party  set  off,  some  singing  plaintively,  one  or  two 
talking  and  the  rest  buried  in  moody  silence.  It  was  now 
day,  the  sun  shot  up  suddenly  and  lighted  the  other  side 
of  the  bay  where  the  land  spread  out,  bleak,  black,  dreary 
and  dismal.  In  front  of  the  party  rose  a  range  of  hills 
that  threw  a  dark  shadow  on  the  sand,  and  in  this  shadow 
the  women  walked.  Above  them  on  the  rising  ground 
could  be  seen  many  cabins  and  blue  wreaths  of  smoke  ris- 
ing from  the  chimneys  into  the  air.  A  cock  crowed  loudly 
and  several  others  joined  in  chorus.  A  dog  barked  at  the 
heels  of  a  stubborn  cow  which  a  ragged,  bare- legged  boy 
was  driving  into  a  wet  pasture  field  .  .  .  the  snow  which 
lay  light  on  the  knolls  was  rapidly  thawing  .  .  .  the  sea, 
now  dark  blue  in  colour,  rose  in  a  long  heaving  swell,  and 
the  wind,  blowing  in  from  the  horizon,  was  bitterly  cold. 

"When  will  the  tide  be  out  again  ?"  asked  Judy  Parrel, 
a  thin,  undersized,  consumptive  woman  who  coughed 
loudly  as  she  walked. 

"When  the  sun's  on  Dooey  Head,"  came  the  answer. 

An  old,  wrinkled  stump  of  a  woman  now  joined  the 
party.  She  carried  a  bundle  of  stockings,  wrapped  in  a 
shawl  hung  across  her  shoulders.  As  she  walked  she 
kept  telling  her  beads. 

"We  were  just  talkin'  of  ye,  Maire  a  Glan,"  said  Biddy 
Wor.  "How  many  stockin's  have  ye  in  that  bundle?" 

" Mother  of  God,  pray  for  us  sinners  now  and  at 

the  hour  of  our  death,  Amen,"  said  the  woman,  speaking 
in  Gaelic  and  drawing  her  prayer  to  a  close ;  then  to  Biddy 
Wor :  "A  dozen  long  stockings  that  I  have  been  working 


22  The  Rat-Pit 

on  for  a  whole  fortnight.  The  thread  was  bad,  bitter  bad, 
as  the  old  man  said,  and  I  could  hardly  get  the  mastery  of 
it.  And  think  of  it,  good  woman,  just  think  of  it !  Farley 
McKeown  only  gives  me  thirteen  pence  for  the  dozen,  and 
he  gives  other  knitters  one  and  three.  He  gave  my  good 
man  a  job  building  the  big  warehouse  in  Greenanore,  and 
then  he  took  two  pence  off  me  in  the  dozen  of  stockings." 

"You  don't  say  so !" 

"True  as  death,"  said  Maire  a  Glan.  "And  Farley  is 
building  a  big  place,  as  the  old  man  said.  He  has  well 
nigh  over  forty  men  on  the  job." 

"And  what  would  he  be  paying  them?" 

"Seven  shillings  a  week,  without  bit  or  sup.  It  is  a 
hard  job  too,  for  my  man,  himself,  leaves  here  at  six  of 
the  clock  in  the  morning  and  he  is  not  back  at  our  own 
fire  till  eight  of  the  clock  at  night." 

"Get  away!" 

"But  that  isn't  all,  nor  the  half  of  it,  as  the  man  said," 
Maire  a  Glan  went  on.  "Himself  has  to  do  all  the  work 
at  home  before  dawn  and  after  dusk,  so  that  he  has  only 
four  hours  to  sleep  in  the  turn  of  the  sun." 

"Just  think  of  that,"  said  Maire  a  Crick. 

"That's  not  all,  nor  half  of  it,  as  the  old  man  said,"  the 
woman  with  the  bundle  continued.  "My  man  gets  one 
bag  of  yellow  meal  from  Farley  every  fortnight,  for  we 
have  eight  children  and  not  a  pratee,  thanks  be  to  God ! 
Farley  charges  people  like  yourselves  only  sixteen  shil- 
lings a  bag,  but  he  charges  us  every  penny  of  a  gold  sov- 
ereign on  the  bags  that  we  get.  If  we  do  not  pay  at  the 
end  of  a  month  he  puts  on  another  sixpence,  and  at  the 
end  of  six  months  he  has  three  extra  shillings  on  the  bag 
of  yellow  meal." 

"God  be  praised,  but  he's  a  sharp  one!"  said  the 
beansho. 

"Is  this  you  ?"  asked  the  woman  with  the  bundle,  look- 


The  Turn  of  the  Tide  23 

ing  at  the  speaker.  "Have  you  some  stockings  in  your 
shawl  too?" 

"Sorrow  the  one,"  answered  the  beansho. 

"But  what  have  ye  there  ?"  asked  Maire  a  Glan ;  then, 
as  if  recollecting,  she  exclaimed :  "Oh,  I  know !  It  is  the 
wean,  as  the  man  said.  .  .  .  And  is  this  yourself,  Norah 
Ryan?" 

"It's  myself,"  replied  the  child,  and  her  teeth  chattered 
as  she  answered. 

"The  blush  is  going  from  your  cheek,"  said  Maire  a 
Glan.  "And  your  mother;  is  she  better  in  health? 
They're  hard  times  that  are  in  it  now,"  she  went  on, 
without  waiting  for  an  answer  to  her  question.  "There 
are  only  ten  creels  of  potatoes  in  our  townland  and  these 
have  to  be  used  for  seed.  God's  mercy  be  on  us,  as  the 
old  man  said,  but  it  was  a  bad  year  for  the  crops !" 

"It  couldn't  have  been  worse,"  said  Judy  Parrel,  clap- 
ping her  thin  hands  to  keep  them  warm.  "On  our  side 
of  the  water,  old  Oiney  Dinchy  (that's  the  man  who  has 
the  dog  that  bit  Dermod  Flynn)  had  to  dig  in  the  pratee 
field  for  six  hours,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  had 
only  twenty-seven  pratees  in  the  basket." 

"If  the  crows  lifted  a  potato  in  Glenmornan  this  min- 
ute, all  the  people  of  the  Glen  would  follow  the  crow  for 
a  whole  week  until  they  got  the  potato  back,"  said  old 
Maire  a  Crick.  "It's  as  bad  now  as  it  was  in  the  year 
of  the  famine." 

"Do  you  mind  the  famine  year?"  asked  Norah  Ryan. 
The  water  was  streaming  from  the  girl's  clothes  into  the 
roadway,  and  though  she  broke  into  a  run  at  times  in  her 
endeavour  to  keep  pace  with  the  elder  women,  the  shiver- 
ing fits  did  not  leave  her  for  an  instant.  The  wind  became 
more  violent  and  the  sleet  which  had  ceased  for  a  while 
was  again  falling  from  the  clouds  in  white  wavy  lines. 

"I  mind  the  bad  times  as  well  as  I  mind  yesterday," 


24  The  Rat-Pit 

said  Maire  a  Crick.  "My  own  father,  mother,  and  sister 
died  in  one  turn  of  the  sun  with  the  wasting  sickness  and 
the  hunger.  I  waked  them  all  alone  by  myself,  for  most 
of  the  neighbours  had  their  own  sick  and  their  own  dead 
to  look  after.  But  they  helped  me  to  carry  my  people  to 
the  grave  in  the  coffin  that  had  the  door  with  hinges  on 
the  bottom.  When  we  came  to  the  grave  the  door  was 
opened  and  the  dead  were  dropped  out;  then  the  coffin 
was  taken  back  for  some  other  soul." 

"At  that  time  there  lived  a  family  named  Gorlachs  at 
the  foot  of  Slieve  a  Dorras,"  said  Maire  a  Glan,  taking  up 
the  tale ;  "and  they  lifted  their  child  out  of  the  grave  on 
the  night  after  it  was  buried  and  ate  it  in  their  own  house. 
Wasn't  that  the  awful  thing,  as  the  old  man  said?" 

"I  wouldn't  put  it  past  them,  for  they  were  a  bad  set, 
the  same  Gorlachs,"  said  Maire  a  Crick.  "But  for  all 
that,  maybe  it  is  that  there  wasn't  a  word  of  truth  in  the 
whole  story." 

IV 

NORAH  RYAN,  who  was  now  lagging  in  the  rear, 
got  suddenly  caught  by  a  heavy  gust  of  wind  that 
blew  up  from  the  sea.  Her  clothes  were  lifted  over  her 
head ;  she  tried  to  push  them  down,  and  the  weasel-skin 
purse  which  she  held  in  her  hand  dropped  on  the  road- 
way. The  penny  jingled  out,  the  coin  which  was  to  pro- 
cure her  bread  in  Greenanore,  and  she  clutched  at  it 
hurriedly.  A  sudden  dizziness  overcame  her,  her  brain 
reeled  and  she  fell  prostrate  to  the  wet  earth.  In  an 
instant  the  beansho  was  at  her  side. 

"Norah  Ryan,  what's  coming  over  ye?"  she  cried  and 
knelt  down  by  the  girl.  The  child's  face  was  deathly  pale, 
the  sleet  cut  her  viciously,  and  her  hands,  lying  palm 
upwards  on  the  mire,  were  blue  and  cold.  The  beansho 


The  Turn  of  the  Tide  25 

tried  to  raise  her  but  the  effort  was  too  much;  the  child 
which  the  woman  carried  impeded  her  movements. 
Maire  a  Crick  now  hurried  up  and  the  rest  of  the  women 
approached,  though  in  a  more  leisurely  fashion. 

"Mother  of  God!  What's  wrong?  What's  wrong?" 
asked  the  old  woman  anxiously.  "What  has  come  over 
the  child  atall,  atall  ?  She's  starving,"  the  old  body  went 
on,  kneeling  on  the  roadway  and  pressing  her  warty 
hands  on  the  breast  of  the  young  girl.  "She's  starving, 
that's  it.  In  her  own  home  she  hardly  eats  one  bite  at  all 
so  that  her  people  may  have  the  more.  So  I  have  heard 
tell.  .  .  .  Norah  Ryan,  for  God's  sake  wake  up!" 

The  girl  gave  no  heed,  made  no  sign.  The  sleet  sang 
through  the  air  and  the  women  gathered  closer,  shielding 
the  little  one  with  their  bodies. 

"What's  to  be  done?"  asked  the  beansho.  Biddy  Wor 
told  how  people  were  cured  of  fargortha  (hunger)  at  the 
time  of  the  famine,  but  little  heed  was  paid  to  her  talk. 
The  beansho  unloosened  her  shawl,  wrapped  her  off- 
spring tightly  in  it  and  handed  the  bundle  to  one  of  the 
women,  who  crossed  herself  as  she  caught  it. 

"Now  up  on  my  back  with  the  girsha,"  said  the  beansho 
authoritatively,  stooping  on  her  knees  in  the  roadway  and 
bending  her  shoulders.  "Martin  Eveleen  has  a  house 
across  the  rise  of  the  brae  and  I'll  carry  her  there." 

Three  of  the  party  lifted  Norah  and  placed  her  across 
the  beansho's  shoulders. 

"How  weighty  the  girsha  is!"  one  exclaimed;  then 
recollecting  said:  "It's  the  water  in  her  clothes  that's 
doing  it.  Poor  girsha!  and  it'll  be  the  hunger  that's 
causing  her  the  weakness." 

The  beansho  with  her  burden  on  her  shoulders  hurried 
forward,  her  feet  pressing  deeply  into  the  mire  and  the 
water  squirting  out  between  her  toes.  The  rest  of  the 
party  following  discussed  the  matter  and,  being  most  of 


26  The  Rat-Pit 

them  old  cronies,  related  stories  of  the  hunger  that  was 
in  it  at  the  time  of  the  great  famine.  Again  it  faired, 
the  sun  came  out,  but  the  air  was  still  bitterly  cold. 

A  cabin  stood  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  and  towards  this 
the  beansho  hurried.  Strong  and  lank  though  she  was, 
the  burden  began  to  bear  heavily  and  she  panted  at  every 
step.  At  the  door  of  the  house  she  paused  for  a  moment 
to  collect  her  strength,  then  lifted  the  latch  and  pushed 
the  door  inwards.  A  man,  shaggy  and  barefooted,  hur- 
ried to  meet  the  woman  and  stared  at  her  suspiciously. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked  in  Gaelic. 

"It's  Norah  Ryan  that's  hungry,  and  she  fainted  on  the 
road,"  explained  the  beansho. 

"In  with  her  then,"  said  the  man,  standing  aside. 
"Maybe  the  heat  of  the  fire  will  take  her  to.  Indeed 
there's  little  else  that  she  can  get  here." 

Inside  it  was  warm  and  a  bright  fire  blazed  on  the  cabin 
hearth.  In  a  corner  near  the  door  some  cows  could  be 
heard  munching  hay,  and  a  dog  came  sniffing  round  the 
beansho's  legs.  A  feeling  of  homeliness  pervaded  the 
place  and  the  smell  of  the  peat  was  soothing  to  the 
nostrils. 

"Leave  her  down  here,"  said  the  woman  of  the  house, 
a  pale,  sickly  little  creature,  as  she  pointed  to  the  dingy 
bed  in  the  corner  of  the  room  near  the  fire.  Several  chil- 
dren dressed  in  rags  who  were  seated  warming  their 
hands  at  the  blaze  rose  hurriedly  on  the  entrance  of  the 
strangers  and  hid  behind  the  cattle  near  the  door. 

"Is  it  the  hunger  and  hardships?"  asked  the  man  of 
the  house  as  he  helped  the  beansho  to  place  the  inert  body 
of  the  little  girl  on  the  bed. 

"The  hunger  and  hardships,  that's  it,"  said  Maire  a 
Crick,  who  now  entered,  followed  by  the  rest  of  the 
women. 

"Then  we'll  try  her  with  this,"  said  the  man,  and  from 


The  Turn  of  the  Tide  27 

behind  the  rafters  of  the  roof  he  drew  out  a  black  bottle 
which  he  uncorked  with  his  fingers.  "It's  potheen,"  he 
explained,  and  emptied  some  of  the  contents  into  a 
wooden  bowl.  This  he  held  to  the  lips  of  the  child  who 
now,  partly  from  the  effects  of  the  heat  and  partly  from 
the  effects  of  the  shaking  she  had  received  on  the  bean- 
sho's  back,  awakened  and  was  staring  vacantly  around 
her.  The  smell  of  the  intoxicant  brought  her  sharply  to 
her  senses. 

"What  are  ye  doin'?"  she  cried.  "That's  not  right, 
and  me  havin'  the  holy  pledge  against  drink!" 

The  man  crossed  himself  and  withdrew  the  bowl, 
whereupon  the  woman  of  the  house  brought  some  milk 
from  the  basin  that  stood  on  the  dresser,  and  this  being 
handed  to  Norah  Ryan,  the  child  drank  greedily.  The 
beansho  gave  her  a  piece  of  bread  when  the  milk  was 
consumed. 

"Where  is  me  purse?"  asked  Norah  suddenly.  "It's 
lyin'  on  the  road  and  the  brown  penny  is  in  the  clabber. 
Where  are  we  atall  ?" 

"In  Martin  Eveleen's  house,  the  house  of  a  decent 
man,"  said  the  beansho.  "Eat  yer  bit  of  bread,  child,  for 
ye're  dyin'  of  hunger.'' 

For  a  moment  the  child  looked  earnestly  at  the  bread, 
then,  as  if  stifling  the  impulse  to  return  it,  she  began  to 
eat  almost  savagely.  Maire  a  Crick  placed  the  purse  and 
penny  which  she  had  lifted  from  the  road  by  the  bedside 
and  withdrew  to  the  door,  already  sorry  perhaps  for  hav- 
ing wasted  so  much  time  on  the  journey.  The  beansho 
found  her  baby,  kissed  a  crumb  into  its  mouth,  tied  it  up 
again  in  her  shawl  and,  when  Norah  had  eaten  the  bread, 
both  went  to  the  door  together. 

"God  be  with  ye,  decent  people,"  said  the  child.  "Some 
day  I  hope  to  be  able  to  do  a  good  turn  for  you." 

"We're  only  glad  to  be  of  help  to  a  nice  girsha,"  said 


28  The  Rat-Pit 

the  man,  taking  down  a  bottle  of  holy  water  from  the 
roof-beam.  He  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  dipped  his 
fingers  in  the  bottle,  and  shook  the  holy  water  over  the 
visitors. 

"God  be  with  yer  journey,"  he  said. 

"And  God  keep  guard  over  your  home  and  everything 
in  it,"  Norah  and  the  beansho  made  answer  in  one  voice. 


CHAPTER   II 

AN   UNSUCCESSFUL   JOURNEY 


THE  hour  was  half-past  ten  in  the  forenoon.     In 
the  village  ("town"  the  peasantry  called  it)  of 
Greenanore   two    rows   of   houses   ran   parallel 
along  a  miry  street  which  measured  east  to  west  some 
two  hundred  yards.    At  one  end  of  the  street  were  the 
police  barracks  and  at  the  other  end  the  workhouse.    Be- 
hind the  latter  rose  the  Catholic  chapel,  and   further 
back  the  brown  moors  stretched  to  the  hills  which  looked 
down  upon  the  bay  where  the  women  crossed  in  the 
early  morning. 

The  houses  in  the  village  were  dull,  dirty  and  dilapi- 
dated. There  were  eight  public-houses,  a  few  grocers' 
shops,  a  smithy  where  the  blacksmith,  who  mended 
scythes  or  shod  donkeys,  got  paid  in  kind  for  his  services. 
The  policemen,  one  to  every  fifty  souls  in  the  village,  pa- 
raded idly  up  and  down  the  street,  their  heavy  batons 
clanking  against  their  trousers,  and  their  boots,  spotlessly 
clean,  rasping  eternally  on  the  pavement.  Their  sole  occu- 
pation seemed  to  be  the  kicking  of  unoffending  dogs  that 
spent  their  days  and  nights  in  a  vain  search  for  some 
eatable  garbage  in  the  gutter.  The  dogs  were  skeletons ; 
and  when  kicked  they  would  slink  quietly  out  of  the  way, 
lacking  courage  either  to  snap  or  snarl.  Even  a  kick 
brought  no  yelp  from  them,  they  were  almost  insensible 
to  every  feeling  but  that  of  the  heavy  hunger  which  dulled 

29 


30  The  Rat-Pit 

their  natural  activity.  At  night  they  were  silent  ghosts 
prowling  about  looking  for  a  morsel  to  eat.  Now  and 
again  they  howled  mournfully,  sitting  on  their  haunches 
in  a  circle;  and  when  the  people  heard  the  lonely  sound 
they  would  say:  "There,  the  dogs  are  crying  because 
they  have  got  no  souls." 

A  little  pot-bellied  man  stepped  briskly  along  the  street 
of  the  village,  one  gloved  hand  grasping  a  stout  stick,  the 
other,  also  gloved,  sunk  in  the  capacious  pocket  of  a  heavy 
overcoat.  He  walked  as  if  he  lacked  knee-joints,  throw- 
ing the  legs  out  from  his  hips,  but,  save  for  this,  there  was 
nothing  remarkable  about  the  man  except  perhaps  his 
stoutness.  The  people  of  Greenanore,  battling  daily 
against  the  terrible  spectre  of  hunger,  had  no  time  to 
grow  fat,  yet  this  man  measured  forty  inches  round  the 
waist.  In  the  midst  of  extreme  poverty  he,  strange  to 
say,  had  grown  corpulent  and  rich.  His  name  was  Farley 
McKeown,  now  possessor  of  £200,000,  part  of  it  invested 
in  South  American  Railways  and  part  of  it  in  the  Donegal 
Knitting  Industry,  and  nearly  all  of  it  earned  in  the  latter. 

Farley  McKeown  was  now  seventy  years  of  age  and 
unmarried.  At  one  time,  years  before,  he  had  his  desires 
as  most  young  men  have,  and  the  sight  of  a  comely  girl 
going  barefooted  to  Greenanore  imparted  a  fiery  and 
not  unpleasant  vigour  to  his  body  and  caused  strange  but 
not  unnatural  thoughts  to  enter  into  his  mind.  He  was 
then  a  young  man  of  twenty,  thoughtful  and  ambitious. 
Although  his  father  was  poor,  the  boy,  educated  by  some 
hedge  schoolmaster,  showed  promise  and  evinced  a  desire 
to  become  a  priest.  "It  is  an  easy  job,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "and  a  priest  can  make  plenty  of  money."  Farley 
McKeown  desired  to  make  money  anyway  and  anyhow. 

When  the  black  potato  blight,  with  the  fever  and  fam- 
ine that  followed  it,  spread  over  Donegal,  Farley  Mc- 
Keown saw  his  chance.  By  dint  of  plausible  arguments 


An  Unsuccessful  Journey         31 

he  persuaded  a  firm  of  Londonderry  grain  merchants  to 
ship  a  cargo  of  Indian  meal  to  Greenanore  and  promised 
to  pay  for  the  consignment  within  two  years  from  the 
date  of  its  arrival.  When  the  cargo  was  landed  on  Dooey 
Head  the  people  hailed  it  as  a  gift  from  God  and  the 
priest  blessed  Farley  McKeown  from  the  altar  steps. 
The  peasants  built  a  large  warehouse  for  McKeown,  and 
in  return  for  the  work  they  were  allowed  a  whole  year 
in  which  to  pay  for  their  meal.  Meanwhile  the  younger 
generation  went  off  to  America,  and  money  flowed  in  to 
Donegal  and  Farley  McKeown's  pocket.  At  the  end  of 
two  years  he  had  paid  the  grain  merchants,  but  the  peas- 
ants found  to  their  astonishment  that  they  had  only  paid 
interest  on  the  cost  of  their  food.  They  were  in  the  man's 
clutches,  always  paying  for  goods  received  and  in  some 
strange  way  never  clear  of  debt.  This  went  on  for  years, 
and  Farley  McKeown,  a  pillar  of  the  Church  and  the 
friend  of  the  holy  priest,  waxed  wealthy  on  the  proceeds 
of  his  business. 

Then  he  started  a  knitting  industry  and  again  was 
hailed  by  the  priest  as  the  saviour  of  the  people.  From 
far  and  near,  from  the  most  southerly  to  the  most  north- 
erly point  of  Donegal  the  peasant  women  came  to  Green- 
anore for  yarn,  crossing  arms  of  the  sea,  mountains  and 
moors  on  their  journey,  and  carrying  back  bundles  of 
yarn  to  their  homes.  The  journey  was  in  many  cases 
thirty  miles  each  way,  and  these  miles  were  tramped  by 
women  between  a  sleep  and  a  sleep,  often  with  only  one 
meal  in  their  stomachs. 

The  daughters  of  Donegal  are  splendid  knitters.  But 
how  difficult  to  make  are  those  wonderful  stockings  when 
there  is  nothing  but  the  peat  fire  or  the  rushlight  to  show 
the  women  the  dreary  and  countless  stitches  that  go  to 
make  the  whole  marvellous  work.  How  quick  those  irons 
flash  in  the  firelight,  how  they  tinkle,  tinkle  one  against 


32  The  Rat-Pit 

another  as  the  nimble  fingers  wind  the  threads  around 
them,  but  alas!  how  wearying  the  toil!  And  the  time 
usually  taken  to  make  a  pair  of  socks  was  sixteen  hours, 
and  the  wages  paid  for  sixteen  hours'  work  was  a  penny 
farthing. 

ii 

FARLEY  McKEOWN  strutted  along  the  street,  inflat- 
ing his  stomach  with  dignity  as  he  walked  and  casting 
careless  looks  around  him.  All  those  whom  he  met  sa- 
luted him,  the  men  raised  their  hands  to  their  caps,  the 
women  bowed  gravely,  and  the  children,  when  they  saw 
him  coming,  ran  away.  An  old  sow,  black  and  dirty  from 
her  wallow  in  some  near  midden,  rushed  violently  into 
the  street  and  grunted  as  she  mouthed  at  the  grime  in 
the  gutter.  A  peasant  boy,  dressed  in  trousers  and  shirt, 
got  hold  of  one  of  the  young  pigs  and  the  animal  squealed 
loudly.  This  startled  the  mother  and  she  peered  round, 
her  little  stupid  eyes  blinking  angrily.  On  seeing  that  one 
of  her  young  was  possibly  in  danger  she  charged  full  at 
the  youth,  who,  hurriedly  dropping  the  sucker,  sought  the 
safety  of  a  near  doorway.  A  few  hens  rushed  off  with 
long,  remarkable  strides  that  made  one  wonder  how  the 
spider-shanked,  ungainly  birds  saved  themselves  from 
toppling  over.  A  rooster — a  defiant  Sultan — who  did  not 
share  in  the  trepidacious  exit  of  his  wives,  crowed  loudly 
and  looked  valiantly  at  the  sow,  as  much  as  to  say:  "I, 
for  one,  am  not  the  least  afraid  of  you."  The  boy  finding 
himself  safe  ventured  out  again  into  the  street,  but  com- 
ing face  to  face  with  Farley  McKeown  hurried  off  even 
more  rapidly  than  when  pursued  by  the  sow.  The  man 
noticed  the  doubtful  mark  of  respect  which  the  youth 
showed  him,  purred  approvingly  and  smiled,  the  smile 
giving  him  the  appearance  of  an  over- fed,  serious  frog. 
McKeown  walked  along  the  street  towards  a  spacious 


An  Unsuccessful  Journey         33 

three-storied  building  containing  many  large  windows  and 
heavy,  painted  doors.  This  was  the  warehouse  in  which 
he  stored  his  yarn.  One  door  was  open,  and  in  front  of 
this  a  crowd  of  barefooted  women  and  children  were 
standing,  most  of  them  holding  large  bundles  of  stockings 
which  they  frequently  changed  from  one  hand  to  another. 
They  did  not  dare  to  rest  their  bundles  on  the  street, 
which  was  wet  with  the  slabbery  sleet  of  mid-November. 

Farley  McKeown  came  to  the  door  and  from  there 
surveyed  the  women  with  a  fixed  stare.  They  shuffled 
uneasily,  a  few  crossed  themselves,  and  one,  a  young  girl, 
ventured  to  say:  "It's  a  cold  morning  this,  Farley 
McKeown,  thanks  be  to  God!" 

The  merchant  made  no  answer.  To  see  those  creatures, 
shrinking  before  his  gaze,  filled  him  with  a  comfortable 
sense  of  importance.  They  were  afraid  of  him,  just  as  he 
was  afraid  of  God,  and  he  thought  that  he  must  be  like 
God  in  their  eyes.  He  fixed  another  withering  glance  on 
the  crowd,  then  turned  and  hurried  upstairs  to  the  top 
floor,  there  to  enter  a  room  where  two  young  men  were 
seated  over  a  desk  struggling  with  long  rows  of  figures  in 
dirty  ledgers.  A  peat  fire  blazed  brightly  in  one  corner  of 
the  room,  and  the  cheerful  flame  was  a  red  rag  to  the  eyes 
of  the  proprietor.  He  looked  sternly  at  the  fire,  then  at 
the  clerks,  then  at  the  fire,  then  back  to  the  clerks  again. 

"Warm  here,  isn't  it?"  he  exclaimed.  "Yes,  it's  warm, 
very  warm;  very  comfortable  indeed,  isn't  it?  It's  nice 
to  have  a  fire  on  a  cold  morning,  very  nice  indeed.  If  you 
were  working  in  your  fathers'  fields  you'd  have  a  fire  out 
by  your  sides,  you'd  carry  a  fire  about  in  your  pockets  all 
day,  you  would  indeed.  Is  it  not  enough  for  you  to  have 
a  roof  over  you?"  he  cried  in  an  angry  tone,  his  voice 
rising  shrilly;  "a  roof  over  your  head  and  four  good  walls 
to  keep  the  winds  of  heaven  away  from  your  bodies?  No, 
it  isn't,  it  isn't,  it  isn't  atall,  atall !  I  gave  you  orders  not 


34  The  Rat-Pit 

to  put  a  fire  on  till  I  came  into  the  office  myself,  and 
what  do  I  see  here  now  ?  One  would  think  that  it's  not 
me  that  owns  this  business.  Who  does  own  it,  I'd  like 
to  know !  Is  it  me  or  is  it  you  ?" 

Gasping  for  breath,  he  flopped  down  suddenly  into  a 
chair,  and  drawing  off  his  gloves  he  stuffed  them  into  the 
pocket  of  his  coat.  Then  taking  an  account  book  he 
stroked  out  several  figures  with  his  pen,  while  between 
every  pen  stroke  he  turned  round  and  shouted:  "Is  it 
me  that  owns  this  business  or  is  it  you  ?  Eh  ?" 

After  a  while  he  ceased  to  speak,  probably  forgetting 
his  rage  in  the  midst  of  the  work,  and  for  two  hours  there 
was  almost  total  silence  save  for  the  low  scratchings  of 
pen  on  paper  and  the  occasional  grunt  which  emanated 
from  the  throat  of  Farley  McKeown.  Suddenly,  how- 
ever, he  stopped  in  the  middle  of  his  work  and  looked  at 
the  skylight  above,  through  which  snow  was  falling,  and 
some  of  it  skiting  off  the  window-ledge  dropped  on  the 
top  of  his  head,  which  being  bald  was  extremely  sensitive 
to  climatic  changes.  Then  he  gave  an  order  slowly  and 
emphatically : 

"Dony  McNelis,  close  the  window." 

One  of  the  clerks,  a  tall  lank  youth,  rose  like  a  rubber 
ball,  bounded  on  top  of  his  seat  and  closed  the  window 
with  a  bang.  On  stepping  down  to  resume  his  work,  he 
noticed  the  crowd  of  women,  now  greatly  increased  by 
the  party  which  had  crossed  the  bay  in  the  morning, 
standing  huddled  together  in  the  street.  The  sleet  was 
falling  thickly — it  was  now  more  snow  than  sleet — and 
the  clothes  of  the  women  were  covered  with  a  fleecy 
whiteness.  The  clerk  paused  in  his  descent  and  looked 
at  the  women,  then  he  spoke  to  the  yarn-seller. 

"Would  it  not  be  better  to  attend  to  these  women 
now?"  he  asked.  "Some  of  them  have  been  out  on  the 
cold  street  since  the  dawn." 


An  Unsuccessful  Journey         35 

Farley  McKeown  turned  round  sharply.  "Is  this  my 
business  or  is  it  yours?"  he  cried,  rising  from  the  chair 
and  stamping  his  feet  on  the  floor.  "Mine  or  yours,  eh? 
Have  I  to  run  like  a  dog  and  attend  to  these  people,  have 
I  ?  I've  kept  them  from  death  and  the  workhouse  for  the 
last  forty  years,  have  I  not?  And  now  you  want  me  to 
run  out  and  attend  on  them,  do  you?  I've  taken  you, 
Dony  McNelis,  into  my  office  out  of  pure  charity,  and 
how  much  money  is  it  that  your  mother  owes  me? 
Couldn't  I  turn  her  out  of  house  and  home  at  a  moment's 
notice?  And  in  face  of  that  you  come  here  and  tell  me 
how  to  run  my  own  business.  Isn't  that  what  you're 
trying  to  do  ?  Eh  ?" 

The  boy  sat  down  without  a  word,  and  catching  a  piece 
of  waste  paper  off  the  table,  he  crumpled  it  angrily  in  his 
hand ;  then  rising  again  he  confronted  his  master. 

"There  are  women  out  there  from  Tweedore  and 
Frosses,"  he  said.  "They  have  travelled  upwards  of 
thirty  miles,  hungry,  all  of  them,  I'll  go  bail,  and  maybe 
not  a  penny  in  their  pockets.  If  they  don't  catch  the  tide 
when  it's  out  they'll  have  to  sleep  on  the  rocks  of  Dooey 
all  night,  and  if  they  do  there'll  be  more  curses  on  your 
head  in  the  morning  than  all  the  masses  ever  said  and  all 
the  prayers  ever  prayed  will  be  fit  to  wash  away.  It's 
nearly  one  of  the  clock  now,  and  they'll  have  to  race  and 
catch  the  tide  afore  it's  on  the  turn,  so  it  would  be  the 
best  thing  to  do  to  attend  to  them  this  minute." 

The  youth  stood  for  a  moment  after  he  had  delivered 
this  speech,  the  longest  ever  made  by  him  in  his  life,  and 
seemed  on  the  point  of  saying  something  more  vehement. 
All  at  once,  however,  he  sat  down  again  and  went  on 
with  his  work  as  if  nothing  unusual  had  happened. 

Farley  McKeown  was  a  superstitious  man.  He  feared 
the  curse  of  an  angry  woman  as  much  as  he  feared  the 
curse  of  a  priest  of  the  Catholic  Church.  And  those 


36  The  Rat-Pit 

women  would  curse  him  if  they  slept  all  night  on  Dooey 
Head.  For  a  moment  he  glared  angrily  at  Dony  McNelis, 
then  went  to  the  window  facing  the  street,  opened  it  and 
looked  out  on  the  shivering  creatures  assembled  in  the 
falling  snow. 

"Are  there  many  Tweedore  and  Frosses  people  here  ?" 
he  shouted. 

"There's  a  good  lot  of  us  here,  and  we're  afraid  that 
we'll  be  a  wee  bit  late  for  the  tide  if  we  don't  get  away 
this  very  minute,"  said  a  voice  from  the  crowd.  Maire  a 
Crick,  the  fatalist,  was  speaking. 

"Have  ye  any  stockings  with  ye?" 

"Sorrow  the  one  has  one  that's  not  on  her  feet,  save 
Maire  a  Glan,  and  she  doesn't  come  from  our  side  of  the 
water,"  Maire  a  Crick  answered.  "When  we  were  here 
the  last  day  we  couldn't  get  a  taste  of  yarn  and  we  had  to 
sleep  all  night  on  the  rocks  of  Dooey.  All  night,  mind, 
Farley  McKeown,  and  the  sky  glowering  like  a  hang- 
man and  the  sea  rushing  like  horses  of  war  up  on  the 
strand.  God  be  with  us !  but  it  will  be  a  cold  place  on  a 
night  like  this.  For  the  love  of  Mary,  give  us  some  yarn, 
Farley  McKeown,"  said  the  old  woman  in  a  piteous  voice. 
"Twenty-four  hours  have  passed  since  I  saw  bread  or 
that  what  buys  it." 

McKeown  turned  round  to  his  clerks.  "Is  there  much 
yarn  down  below?"  he  asked. 

"Plenty,"  said  Dony  McNelis,  wiping  his  pen  on  his 
coat-sleeve. 

"If  they  had  my  yarn  with  them  and  miss  the  tide, 
they'd  ruin  the  stuff,"  thought  Farley  McKeown;  then 
turning  to  the  women  he  shouted  in  a  loud  voice : 
"There's  no  yarn  for  the  Tweedore  and  Frosses  women 
this  day.  Maybe  if  they  come  to-morrow  or  the  day 
after  they'll  get  some." 

Having  said  these  words  he  shut  the  window. 


CHAPTER   III 

ON   DOOEY    HEAD 


OUTSIDE,  the  women  who  had  taken  up  their 
stand  at  dawn  were  still  changing  their  bundles 
of  stockings  from  one  hand  to  another  and 
'sheltering  them  under  their  shawls  whenever  they 
changed  them.  All  the  time  they  kept  hitting  their  feet 
sharply  against  the  gritty  street,  trying  to  drive  the  cold 
and  the  numbness  away.  On  the  other  side  of  the  pave- 
ment a  policeman  stood  for  a  moment  and  eyed  them 
disdainfully,  then  marched  on,  his  baton  striking  soberly 
against  his  leg.  One  of  the  party,  a  handsome  girl, 
stepped  out  from  the  crowd  and  lifting  her  dress  well 
over  her  ankles  wrung  the  water  from  her  petticoats.  A 
young  fellow  passing  on  a  donkey-cart  looked  shyly  at 
the  girl  and  shouted:  "Lift  them  a  bit  higher,  girsha; 
just  a  little  bit!"  Whereupon  the  maiden  blushed, 
dropped  her  dress  as  if  it  was  red-hot  and  returned  hur- 
riedly to  her  companions. 

The  Tweedore  and  Frosses  women  had  gone  away, 
speaking  loudly  and  lamenting  over  their  ill-luck.  Many 
of  them  were  eating  white  bread  (a  new  importation  into 
Greenanore),  but  without  butter  to  give  it  relish  or  liquid 
to  wash  it  down.  The  bread  cost  a  penny  a  chunk  and 
one  penny  represented  a  whole  day's  wages  to  most  of 
the  women.  Norah  Ryan  walked  with  them,  but  in  her 
lagging  gait  could  be  detected  great  weariness,  and  in  her 

37 


38  The  Rat-Pit 

eyes  there  were  traces  of  tears.  The  poor  child  of  twelve, 
who  felt  her  suffering  very  keenly,  offered  to  share  her 
dry  crust  with  Maire  a  Crick,  who  had  no  money,  and  the 
old  woman  looked  greedily  at  the  bread  for  a  moment 
but  refused  to  accept  it. 

The  party  hurried  clear  of  the  town,  their  bare  feet 
pattering  loudly  on  the  road.  Suddenly  they  encountered 
the  parish  priest,  Father  Devaney,  an  old,  grey-haired, 
sleek-looking  fellow,  with  shiny  false  teeth  and  a  pot-belly 
like  McKeown.  He  pulled  his  rosary  from  his  pocket 
and  began  to  pray  when  he  observed  his  parishioners. 

"Tweedore  and  Frosses  people,"  he  cried  genially,  turn- 
ing his  eyes  from  the  rosary  cross  to  the  women,  "have 
ye  got  no  yarn  this  good  day?  No.  That's  a  pity,  but 
believe  me  when  I  say  that  Mr.  McKeown  is  doing  his 
very  best  for  the  whole  lot  of  ye.  He's  a  good  man,  a 
sturdy  man,  a  reliable  man,  and  there's  not  his  equal, 
barrin'  the  priests  themselves,  in  all  Ireland.  Are  you 
the  daughter  of  James  Ryan  of  Meenalicknalore  ?"  he 
asked,  turning  to  Norah  Ryan. 

"That  I  am,  father,"  answered  the  child. 

"Does  he  forget  about  the  money  that  I'm  wanting  for 
the  building  of  my  new  house?"  asked  the  old  man  in  a 
severe  tone  of  voice.  "J  want  five  pounds  from  every 
family  in  the  parish,  and  I'm  not  givin'  them  one  year  or 
two  years,  but  a  whole  five  years  in  which  to  pay  it. 
They're  most  of  them  payin'  up  now  like  real  good  Chris- 
tians and  Catholics,  for  they  want  to  see  their  own  sog- 
garth's  house  a  good  house,  a  strong  house  and  a  substan- 
tial house.  But  there  is  some  of  my  own  flock,  and  James 
Ryan  is  one  of  them,  that  won't  give  a  penny  piece  to  the 
soggarth  who  is  goin'  to  save  their  souls  for  them.  Listen, 
girsha!  Tell  James  Ryan  when  you  get  home  that  the 
first  pound  should  be  paid  at  Michaelmas  and  it's  now 
long  past  Hallowe'en.  Tell  him  that  I  pray  every  night 


On  Dooey  Head  39 

for  them  that's  not  behind  in  comin'  forward  to  help  the 
priest  at  the  buildin'  of  his  house,  the  soggarth's  house 
and  the  house  of  all  his  people.  Tell  James  Ryan  that 
there's  no  prayer  for  him  as  yet,  but  if  he  hurries  up  with 
just  one  pound " 

The  priest  suddenly  spied  the  beansho  staring  at  him, 
and  he  noticed  that  there  was  a  look  of  unfeigned  con- 
tempt in  her  eyes.  He  observed  the  bundle  in  her  shawl, 
and  suddenly  recollected  that  it  was  the  woman's  child — 
the  talk  of  the  parish  barely  six  months  before.  The 
priest  looked  at  the  woman  fixedly  for  a  moment,  then 
knowing  that  all  the  party  was  watching  him  intently,  he 
raised  his  hand  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  his 
forehead.  This  was  as  much  as  to  say,  "God  save  me 
from  this  woman,  for  there  is  nothing  good  in  her."  Old 
Maire  a  Crick  crossed  herself  in  imitation  of  the  soggarth 
and  cast  a  look  of  withering  contempt  at  the  beansho. 
Norah  Ryan  also  raised  her  hand,  but  suddenly  it  was 
borne  to  her  that  the  action  of  Maire  a  Crick  was  very 
unseemly*  and  she  refrained  from  making  the  sign  of  the 
cross.  Of  course  the  priest  was  right  in  what  he  had 
-done,  she  knew ;  the  people  were  forbidden  to  see  any- 
thing wrong  in  the  ways  of  the  soggarth. 

Suddenly  the  old  man  turned  away.  He  walked  off  a 
short  distance,  his  head  sunk  on  his  breast  and  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  back,  the  rosary  dangling  from  his 
fingers.  Perhaps  he  was  deep  in  thought,  or  maybe  he 
was  saying  a  prayer  for  the  beansho;  the  poor  woman, 
buried  beneath  her  weight  of  sin  and  sorrow,  had  no 
doubt  filled  him  with  compassion.  What  would  he,  the 
father  of  the  flock,  not  do  to  make  lighter  the  woman's 
burden  ?  All  at  once  he  paused,  turned  round  and  faced 
the  women  who  were  staring  after  him. 

"Norah  Ryan !"  he  called,  and  his  voice  was  pregnant 
with  priestly  gravity.  "If  yer  father  doesn't  send  me  the 


40  The  Rat-Pit 

pound  before  the  end  of  the  next  month  he'll  have  no  luck 
in  this  world  and  no  happiness  in  the  next.  Tell  him 
that  I,  meself,  the  parish  priest,  said  these  very  words." 

Having  thus  spoken,  the  good  man  went  on  his  way, 
telling  his  beads ;  perhaps  counting  by  their  aid  the  num- 
ber of  sovereigns  required  for  the  construction  of  his 
mansion. 

"That  will  make  some  people  sit  up  if  they  don't  sink 
into  their  brogues,"  said  Maire  a  Crick,  glancing  in  turn 
at  Norah  Ryan  and  the  beansho.  "Mother  of  Jesus,  to 
have  the  priest  talking  to  one  like  that !  Who  ever  heard 
the  likes  of  it?" 

"Do  you  know  how  much  the  priest  is  goin'  to  spend 
on  a  lav-ha-thury  for  his  new  house  ?"  asked  the  beansho 
drily. 

"Lav-ha-thury?"  said  Judy  Parrel.    "What's  that?" 

"Old  Oiney  Dinchy  of  Glenmornan  said  that  it  is  a 
place  for  keeping  holy  water,"  said  Maire  a  Crick. 

"Holy  water,  my  eye!"  said  the  beansho.  "It's  the 
place  where  the  priest  washes  himself." 

"I've  heard  of  them  washin'  themselves  away  in  foreign 
parts  all  over  and  every  day,"  said  a  woman.  "But  they 
must  be  far  from  clean  in  them  places.  They  just  go  into 
big  things  full  of  water  just  as  pigs,  God  be  good  to  us  !  go 
into  a  midden.  Father  McKee,  I  wish  him  rest !  used  to 
wash  his  hands  in  an  old  tub,  and  that's  all  the  washin' 
ever  he  did,  and  wouldn't  ye  think  that  a  tub  was  good 
enough  for  this  man?  But  what  am  I  talking  about!" 
exclaimed  the  woman,  making  the  sign  of  the  cross. 
"Isn't  it  the  priest  that  knows  what  is  best  to  do?" 

"He's  goin'  to  spend  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  on 
his  lav-ha-thury,  anyway,"  said  the  beansho.  "Two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds  on  one  single  room  of  his  house! 
Ye'll  not  fill  yer  own  bellies  and  ye'll  give  him  a  bathroom 
to  wash  his!" 


On  Dooey  Head  41 

"Mercy  be  on  us!"  exclaimed  Biddy  Wcr,  staring 
aghast  at  the  beansho.  "Ye're  turnin'  out  to  be  a  Prodi- 
san,  Sheila  Carrol.  Talkin'  of  the  priest  in  that  way! 
No  wonder,  indeed,  that  he  puts  the  cross  on  his  fore- 
head when  he  meets  you." 

"No  wonder,  indeed !"  chimed  a  chorus  of  voices. 

"The  sun,  God  forgive  me  for  callin'  it  a  sun !  will  be 
near  Dooey  Head  this  minute,"  Maire  a  Crick  reminded 
the  party,  who  had  forgotten  about  the  tide  in  the  heat  of 
the  discussion.  Now  they  hurried  off,  breaking  into  a  run 
from  time  to  time,  Judy  Farrel  leading,  her  little  pinched 
figure  doubling  up  almost  into  a  knot  when  she  coughed. 
Last  in  the  race  were  Norah  Ryan  and  Maire  a  Crick. 


ii 

THE  darkness  was  falling  as  the  women  raced  down 
the  crooked  roa.d  that  ran  to  Dooey  foreshore.  A 
few  birch  bushes,  with  trembling  branches  tossing  hither 
and  thither  like  tangled  tresses,  bounded  the  road  at  inter- 
vals. The  sky  was  overcast  with  low-hanging,  slatey 
clouds,  and  in  the  intervening  distance  between  foreshore 
and  horizon  no  separate  object  could  be  distinguished : 
everything  there  had  blended  together  in  grey,  formless 
mistiness.  There  was  hardly  a  word  spoken ;  the  pattering 
of  bare  feet,  Judy  Parrel's  cough  and  the  hard,  laboured 
breathing  of  the  elder  women  were  all  that  could  be  heard. 

One  of  the  party,  well  in  advance,  barefooted  and 
carrying  her  shoes  hung  round  her  neck  with  a  piece  of 
string,  struck  her  toe  sharply  against  a  rock. 

"The  curse  of  the  devil !"  she  exclaimed ;  then  in  a 
quieter  voice:  "It's  God's  blessin'  that  I  haven't  my 
brogues  on  my  feet,  for  they  would  be  ruined  entirely." 

A  belated  bird  cried  sharply  and  its  call  was  carried  in 


42  The  Rat-Pit 

from  the  sea  .  .  .  somewhere  in  the  distance  a  cow  lowed 
— the  sound  was  prolonged  in  a  hundred  ravines  .  .  .  the 
bar  moaned  fretfully  as  if  in  a  troubled  sleep  .  .  .  the 
snow  ceased  to  fall  and  some  stars  glittered  bright  as 
diamonds  in  the  cold  heavens. 

"Mother  of  God!  It's  on  the  turn,"  Maire  a  Crick 
shouted,  and  hurried  as  rapidly  as  her  legs  would  permit 
down  the  hill.  At  intervals  some  of  the  party  following 
her  would  stumble,  fall,  turn  head  over  heels  and  rise 
rapidly  again.  They  came  to  the  strand,  raced  across  it, 
making  little  noise  with  their  feet  as  they  ran  and  with 
their  bodies  as  they  fell.  Norah  Ryan's  head  shook  fit- 
fully from  side  to  side  as  she  tried  to  keep  pace  with  her 
companions. 

They  were  not  aware  of  the  proximity  of  the  dhan  until 
they  were  in  the  water  and  splashing  it  all  around  them. 
When  half-way  across  Maire  a  Crick  found  the  water  at 
her  breast;  another  step  and  it  reached  her  chin.  Those 
behind  could  only  see  a  black  head  bobbing  in  the  waves. 

"Come  back,  Maire  a  Crick!"  Biddy  Wor  shouted. 
"Ye'll  be  drownded  if  ye  go  one  step  at  all  further." 

The  old  woman  turned,  came  back  slowly  and  solemnly, 
without  speaking  a  word. 

On  reaching  the  strand  she  went  down  on  her  knees 
and  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven,  looking  up  through  the 
snowy  flakes  that  were  now  falling  out  of  the  darkness. 
Then  she  spoke,  and  her  voice,  rising  shrill  and  terrible, 
carried  far  across  the  dhan: 

"May  seven  curses  from  the  lips  of  Jesus  Christ  fall 
seven  times  seven  on  the  head  of  Farley  McKeown!" 

The  waves  rolled  up  to  her  feet,  stretching  out  like 

blacJk— sinuous  snakes;  a  long,  wailing  wind,  that  put 

idroumy ^thoughts  into  the  hearts  of  those  who  listened 

tcTit7  swept  in  from  the  sea.    Behind  on  the  shore,  large 

\  rocks,  frightful  and  shapeless,  stood  out  amidst  stunted 


On  Dooey  Head  43 

bushes  that  sobbed  in  dismal  unison.  The  women  went 
back  to  the  rocks,  passing  through  bent-grass  that  shook 
in  the  breeze  like  eels.  All  around  the  brambles  writhed 
like  long  arms  clutching  at  their  prey  with  horrible  claws. 
A  tuft  of  withered  fern  flew  by  in  the  air  as  if  escaping 
from  something  which  followed  it,  and  again  the  cry  of 
the  solitary  sea-bird  pierced  the  darkness. 

Between  the  clefts  of  a  large  rock,  which  in  some  past 
age  had  been  split  by  lightning,  the  women,  worn  out  with 
their  day's  journey,  sat  down  in  a  circle,  their  shawls 
drawn  over  their  heads  and  their  feet  tucked  well  up 
under  their  petticoats.  The  darkness  almost  overpowered 
Norah  Ryan ;  she  shuddered  and  the  shudder  chilled  her 
to  the  heart.  It  was  not  terror  that  possessed  her  but 
something  more  unendurable  than  terror;  it  was  the 
agony  of  a  soul  dwarfed  by  the  immensity  of  the  infinite. 
She  was  lonely,  desperately  lonely.  In  the  midst  of  the 
women  she  was  far  from  them.  They  began  to  speak 
and  their  voices  were  the  voices  of  dreams. 

Maire  a  Crick,  speaking  in  Gaelic,  was  telling  a  story, 
while  wringing  the  water  from  her  clothes,  the  story  of  a 
barrow  that  came  across  the  hills  of  Glenmornan  in  the 
year  of  .the  famine,  and  on  the  barrow,  which  rolled 
along  of  its  own  accord,  there  was  a  large  coffin  with  a 
door  at  the  bottom  of  it.  Then  another  of  the  party  told 
of  her  grandfather's  wake  and  the  naked  man  who  came 
to  the  house  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  took  up  a 
seat  by  the  chimney  corner.  He  never  spoke  a  word  but 
smoked  the  pipe  of  tobacco  that  was  handed  to  him. 
When  the  cock  crew  with  the  dawn  he  got  up  from  his 
seat  and  went  out  and  away.  Nobody  knew  the  man  and 
no  one  ever  saw  him  again. 

"We  might  get  shelter  in  one  of  the  houses  up  there," 
said  Norah  Ryan,  rousing  herself  and  pointing  to  the  hill 


44  The  Rat-Pit 

above,  where  the  short-lived  rushlights  flickered  and 
shone  at  intervals  in  the  scattered  cabins. 

"We  might,"  said  Maire  a  Crick,  "we  might  indeed,  but 
it's  not  in  me  to  go  askin'  a  night's  shelter  under  the  roof 
of  a  Ballybonar  man.  There  was  once,  years  ago,  a  black 
word  between  the  Ballybonar  people  and  the  people  of  our 
side  of  the  water.  Since  then  we  haven't  darkened  one 
another's  doorsteps,  and  we're  not  going  to  do  it  now." 

"Maybe  someone  on  our  side  will  send  a  boat  across," 
said  the  beansho. 

"Maybe  they'll  do  that  if  they're  not  at  the  fishin'," 
Judy  Parrel  answered.  "And  when  are  they  not  at  the 
fishin'  ?  They're  always  out  on  the  diddy  of  the  sea  and 
never  catching  a  fish  atall,  atall !" 

"We'll  walk  about ;  it  will  keep  our  feet  warm." 

"And  maybe  fall  down  between  the  rocks  and  break 
our  bits  of  legs." 

The  rushlights  on  the  hill  above  went  out  one  by  one 
and  the  darkness  became  intense.  The  Ballybonar  people 
had  gone  to  bed.  One  of  the  women  on  the  rock  began  to 
snore  loudly,  and  those  who  remained  awake  envied  her 
because  she  slept  so  soundly. 

"I  suppose  Farley  McKeown  will  have  a  feather  bed 
under  him  now,"  said  Maire  a  Crick  with  a  broken  laugh. 
It  seemed  as  if  she  was  weeping.  The  beansho,  who  was 
giving  suck  to  her  babe,  turned  to  Norah  Ryan  who  sat 
beside  her. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  Norah?"  she  asked  in 
Gaelic. 

"I'm  just  wondering  if  my  mother  is  better,"  answered 
the  child. 

"I  hope  she  is,"  said  the  beansho.  "Are  you  sleepy? 
Would  you  like  to  sleep  like  the  earth,  like  the  ground 
under  you?" 

"In  the  grave  you  mean  ?" 


On  Dooey  Head  45 

"No,  no,  child.  But  like  the  world  at  night;  like  the 
ground  under  you  ?  It's  asleep  now ;  one  can  almost  hear 
it  breathing,  and  one  would  like  to  sleep  with  it.  If  ever 
you  think  that  the  earth  is  asleep,  Norah,  be  careful. 
Maybe  when  you  grow  up  some  man  will  say  to  you :  'I 
like  you  better  than  anyone  else  in  the  world.'  That  will 
be  very  nice  to  listen  to,  Norah.  Maybe  you'll  walk  with 
the  man  on  a  lonely  moor  or  on  the  strand  beside  the  sea. 
It  will  be  night,  and  there  will  be  many  stars  in  the  sky, 
and  you'll  not  say  they're  cold  then  as  you  said  this  morn- 
ing, Norah.  All  at  once  you'll  stop  and  listen.  You'll  not 
know  why  you  listen  for  everything  will  be  so  quiet.  But 
for  a  minute  it  will  come  to  you  that  the  earth  is  asleep 
and  that  everything  is  in  slumber.  That  will  be  a  dan- 
gerous hour,  child,  for  then  you  may  commit  the  mortal 
sin  of  love." 

"Was  that  your  sin,  Sheila  Carrol  ?"  asked  Norah  Ryan, 
calling  the  woman  by  her  correct  name  for  the  first  time. 

"That  was  my  sin,  Norah." 

"But  you  said  this  morning " 

"Never  mind  what  I  said  this  morning,"  answered  the 
woman  in  a  tone  of  mild  reproof.  "I'm  only  saying  that 
the  ground  under  us  and  around  us  is  now  sleeping." 

"The  ground  sleeping !"  exclaimed  Maire  a  Crick,  who 
overheard  the  last  words  of  the  conversation.  "I  never 
heard  such  silly  talk  coming  out  of  a  mouth  in  all  my  life 
before." 

"Neither  have  I,"  said  Norah  Ryan,  but  she  spoke  so 
low  that  no  one,  not  even  the  beansho,  heard  her. 

Maire  a  Crick  sang  a  song.  It  told  of  a  youth  who 
lived  in  Ireland  "when  cows  were  kine,  and  pigs  were 
swine  and  eagles  of  the  air  built  their  nests  in  the  beards 
of  giants."  When  the  youth  was  born  his  father  planted 
a  tree  in  honour  of  the  event.  The  boy  grew  up,  very 
proud  of  this  tree,  and  daily  he  watered  and  tended  it, 


46  The  Rat-Pit 

and  one  day  the  boy  was  hung  (why  the  song  never 
stated)  from  the  branches  of  his  own  tree. 

"There  never  was  a  man  hung  either  in  Frosses  or 
Tweedore,"  said  the  woman  who  had  just  been  snoring. 
"Never  a  mother's  son !" 

"So  I  have  heard,"  Maire  a  Crick  remarked,  pulling 
her  feet  well  up  under  her  petticoats.  "In  Frosses  and 
Tweedore  there  never  was  a  tree  strong  enough  to  bear 
the  weight  of  a  man,  and  never  s,  *nan  with  a  body 
weighty  enough  to  break  his  own  neck." 

Having  said  this  the  old  woman,  who  came  from  the 
south  of  Donegal,  chuckled  deep  down  in  her  throat,  and 
showed  the  one  remaining  tooth  which  she  possessed  in  a 
hideous  grin. 

in 

ABOUT  the  hour  of  midnight  the  heavens  cleared  and 
the  moon,  hardly  full,  lighted  up  the  coast  of  West- 
ern Donegal.  On  the  bosom  of  the  sea  a  few  dark  specks 
moved  to  and  fro,  and  at  intervals  the  splash  of  oars 
could  be  heard.  When  the  oars  were  lifted  out  of  the  sea 
the  water,  falling  from  them,  looked  like  molten  silver. 

"Norah  will  be  warm  in  bed  by  now,"  said  a  voice. 

"If  she  caught  the  tide  when  it  was  standing,"  a  voice 
clearer  and  younger  replied. 

"If  she  caught  the  tide,"  repeated  the  first  speaker  in  a 
thoughtful  tone;  then  after  a  short  silence,  "Does  not 
the  land  look  black,  back  from  the  sea?" 

The  youth  studied  the  shore-line  attentively,  allowing 
his  oar  to  trail  through  the  water.  "Mother  of  God !  but 
it  looks  ugly,"  he  replied.  "I  hate  it!  I  hate  it  more 
than  I  hate  anything !" 

On  shore  most  of  the  women  were  now  asleep  amongst 
the  rocks,  their  shawls  drawn  tightly  over  their  heads  and 


On  Dooey  Head  47 

their  feet  tucked  up  under  their  petticoats.  Maire  a 
Crick,  still  awake,  hummed  a  tune  deep  down  in  her 
throat,  and  Judy  Parrel  coughed  incessantly.  One  white, 
youthful  face  was  turned  to  the  heavens,  and  the  moon, 
glancing  for  a  moment  on  the  pale  cheeks  of  the  sleeper, 
caused  a  tear  falling  from  the  closed  eyelids  to  sparkle 
like  a  pearl. 


CHAPTER   IV 

RESTLESS  YOUTH 


JAMES  RYAN'S  cabin  lay  within  half  a  mile  of  the 
sea,  and  his  croft,  a  long  strip  of  rock-bespattered, 
sapless  land,  ran  down  to  the  very  shore.  But  this 
strip  of  land  was  so  narrow  that  the  house,  small  though 
it  was,  could  not  be  built  across,  and  instead  of  the 
cabin-front,  an  end  gable  faced  the  water.  In  Frosses 
most  of  the  land  is  divided  into  thin  strips,  for  it  is  the 
unwritten  law  that  they  who  have  no  land  touching  the 
sea  may  not  lift  any  sea- weed  to  manure  their  potato 
patches.  In  Frosses  some  of  the  crofts,  measuring  two 
miles  in  length,  are  seldom  more  than  eight  paces  in  width 
at  any  point. 

All  over  the  district  gigantic  boulders  are  strewn,  huge 
rocks  that  might  have  been  flung  about  in  play  by  mon- 
strous giants  who  forgot,  when  their  humour  was  at  an 
end,  to  gather  them  up  again.  Between  these  rocks  the 
people  till  for  crops,  plots  of  land  which  seldom  measure 
more  than  four  yards  square,  and  every  rock  conceals 
either  a  potato  patch  or  cornfield.  It  was  said  years  ago 
that  Frosses  had  twenty-one  blades  of  grass  to  the  square 
foot,  but  this  was  contradicted  by  a  sarcastic  peasant, 
who  said  that  if  grass  grew  so  plentifully  with  them  they 
would  all  be  wealthy. 

Fishing  was  indulged  in,  but  very  little  fish  was  ever 

48 


Restless  Youth  49 

landed :  Scottish  and  English  trawlers  netted  the  fish  off- 
shore, and  few  were  picked  up  by  the  peasantry,  whose 
boats  and  nets  were  of  the  most  primitive  pattern.  The 
nets  were  bad,  the  boats,  mere  curraghs,  were  untrust- 
worthy, and  a  great  deal  of  the  fishermen's  time  was 
usually  spent  in  baling  out  water.  At  best  fishing  was  for 
them  an  almost  profitless  trade.  They  had  no  markets 
and  no  carts  to  send  their  fish  to  town.  For  the  most 
part  the  fishers  used  the  fish  themselves  or  traded  them 
in  kind  with  their,  neighbours. 

On  the  morning  following  the  women's  visit  to  Greena- 
nore  two  men  came  up  from  the  sea  towards  the  door  of 
James  Ryan's  cabin.  One  was  an  old  man,  bearded  and 
wrinkled,  whose  brows  were  continually  contracting  as  is 
the  habit  with  those  who  live  by  the  sea  and  look  on  the 
wrath  of  many  winds.  He  was  dressed  in  a  white  wrap- 
per, a  woollen  shirt,  open  at  the  neck,  trousers  folded  up 
to  the  knees,  and  mairteens.  The  other  was  a  youth  of 
nineteen,  dark-haired,  supple  of  limb  and  barefooted.  In 
the  two  men  a  family  likeness  might  be  detected;  they 
were  father  and  son,  James  Ryan  and  his  only  boy, 
Fergus.  There  were  now  only  four  in  the  family ;  death 
had  taken  away  most  of  the  children  before  they  were  a 
year  old. 

Fergus  opened  the  door  of  the  cabin,  to  be  met  with  the 
warm  and  penetrating  breath  of  the  cattle  inside.  The 
cows,  always  curious  to  see  a  new-comer,  turned  round  in 
their  beds  of  fresh  heather  and  fixed  their  big,  soft  eyes 
on  the  youth.  Beside  the  cow  nearest  the  door,  a  young 
calf,  spotted  black  and  white,  turned  round  on  long,  lank, 
awkward  legs  and  sniffed  suspiciously ;  then,  finding  that 
no  danger  was  going  to  befall  him,  snuggled  up  against 
his  mother,  who  commenced  to  lick  her  offspring  with  a 
big  rough  tongue.  Suddenly  a  pig  ran  in  from  the  out- 
side, rushed  between  the  youth's  legs  and  disappeared  un- 


50  The  Rat-Pit 

der  the  bed.  Its  back  was  bleeding  as  if  a  dog  had 
bitten  it. 

"Is  not  the  pig's  flesh  like  a  human's?"  said  Fergus, 
turning  to  his  father.  "White ;  almost  without  hair  and 
it  bleeds  just  like  a  man's.  I  hate  pigs ;  I  wish  we  could 
live  without  keeping  them.  .  .  .  Oh!  here  is  Norah  at 
the  fire.  Have  you  just  got  up?" 

The  child,  shivering  from  cold,  was  sitting  on  the  has- 
sock, her  hands  spread  out  to  the  peat  blaze. 

"She  has  only  just  come  in  from  the  other  side  of  the 
water,"  said  the  mother,  who  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  knit- 
ting stockings.  "She  lay  out  all  night,  poor  creature! 
Twenty-seven  women  in  all  were  lying  out  on  the  snow. 
And  she  got  no  yarn !  Thanks  be  to  God !  but  it's  a  bad 
time." 

"A  bad  time,  a  hard  time,  a  very  hard  time !"  said  the 
old  man,  sitting  down  on  an  upturned  creel  and  taking  off 
his  mairteens.  "No  yarn !  and  there  was  not  a  fish  in  all 
the  seas  last  night." 

"None  but  the  ones  we  didn't  catch,"  said  Fergus.  "It 
is  that  dirty  potato-basket  of  a  boat  that  is  to  blame.  .  .  . 
Are  you  cold,  Norah  ?" 

"I  am  only  shivering;  but  the  fire  will  do  me  good." 

"She  didn't  ate  one  bit  of  her  breakfast  yesterday," 
said  the  mother.  "Left  it  all  for  you  when  you  came  in 
from  the  sea,  she  did !" 

Norah  blushed  as  if  she  had  been  caught  doing  some- 
thing wrong;  then  drank  from  the  bowl  of  milk  which 
was  placed  on  the  floor  beside  her.  The  father  looked 
greedily  at  the  bowl;  the  mother  spoke. 

"It  is  nice  and  warm,  that  milk,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"I  wish  we  had  more  of  it,  but  at  this  time  of  the  year  the 
milk  runs  thin  in  the  cow's  elldurs.  But  even  if  we  had 
got  enough  bread,  never  mind  milk,  it  would  not  be  so 


Restless  Youth  51 

bad.  .  .  .  And  there  is  not  one  bit  for  you  this  morning. 
.  .  .  Do  you  know  what  the  soggarth  says,  Shemus?" 


n  , 

THE  husband  looked  at  his  wife,  and  an  expression 
of  dread  appeared  on  his  face.  "What  does  he  say, 
Mary?" 

"He  is  offering  up  no  prayers  for  your  soul." 

"Mother  of  God,  be  good  to  me!" 

"You  must  pay  him  that  pound  at  once,  he  says." 

"But  barring  what  we  are  saving  up  for  the  landlord's 
rent,  bad  scran  to  him!  we  have  not  one  white  shilling 
in  the  house." 

"That  does  not  matter  to  the  priest,  the  damned  old 
pig!"  exclaimed  Fergus,  who  had  been  looking  gloomily 
at  the  roof  since  he  had  spoken  to  Norah. 

"Fergus !"  the  three  occupants  of  the  house  exclaimed 
in  one  breath. 

"What's  coming  over  the  boy  at  all  ?"  the  mother  went 
on.  "It  must  be  the  books  that  Micky's  Jim  takes  over 
from  Scotland  that  are  bringing  ruin  to  the  gasair." 

"It  is  common  sense  that  I  am  talking,"  Fergus  hotly 
replied.  "What  with  the  landlord,  Farley  McKeown,  and 
the  priest,  you  are  all  in  a  nice  pickle!" 

"The  priest,  Fergus !" 

"Robbing  you  because  he  is  a  servant  of  the  Lord ;  that 
is  the  priest's  trick,"  the  youth  exclaimed.  "We  are 
feeding  here  with  the  cows  and  the  pigs  and  we  are  not 
one  bit  better  than  the  animals  ourselves.  I  hate  the 
place ;  I  hate  it  and  everything  about  it." 

"Sure  you  don't  hate  your  own  people  ?"  asked  Norah, 
rising  from  her  seat  and  going  timidly  up  to  her  brother. 
"Sure  you  don't  hate  me,  Fergus  ?" 


52  The  Rat-Pit 

"Hate  you  ?"  laughed  the  young  man  stroking  her  hair 
with  an  awkward  hand.  "No  one  could  hate  you,  because 
you  are  a  little  angel.  .  .  .  Now  run  away  and  sit  down 
at  the  fire  and  warm  yourself.  .  .  .  They  are  going  to 
make  you  a  nun,  they  say." 

There  was  a  note  of  scorn  in  his  voice,  and  he  looked 
defiantly  at  his  mother  as  he  spoke. 

"What  better  than  a  nun  could  she  be?"  asked  the 
mother. 

"I  would  rather  see  her  a  beggar  on  the  rainy  roads." 

"What  is  coming  over  you  atall,  Fergus?"  asked  the 
old  man.  "Last  night,  too,  you  were  strange  in  your  talk 
on  the  top  of  the  sea." 

"How  much  money  have  you  in  the  house?"  Fergus 
asked,  taking  no  heed  of  his  father's  remark.  "Ten 
shillings  will  be  enough  to  take  me  out  of  the  country 
altogether." 

"Fergus,  what  are  you  saying?"  asked  his  mother. 

"I  am  going  away  from  here  and  I  am  going  to  push 
my  fortune."  He  looked  out  of  the  window  and  his  eyes 
followed  the  twist  of  the  road  that  ran  like  a  ribbon  away 
past  the  door  of  the  house. 

"But,  Fergus  dear !" 

"It  does  not  matter,  maghair  (mother),  what  you  say," 
remarked  the  youth,  interrupting  his  mother.  "I  am 
going  away  this  very  day.  I  have  had  it  in  my  head  for 
a  long  while.  I'll  make  you  rich  in  the  years  to  come. 
I'll  earn  plenty  of  money." 

"That's  what  they  all  say,  child,"  the  mother  interposed, 
and  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  "It's  more  often  a  grave 
than  a  fortune  they  find  in  the  black  foreign  country." 

"Could  any  place  under  the  roof-tree  of  heaven  be  a's 
black  as  this,"  asked  the  youth  excitedly.  "There  is  noth- 
ing here  but  rags,  poverty,  and  dirt ;  pigs  under  the  bed, 
cows  in  the  house,  the  rain  coming  through  the  thatch  in- 


Restless  Youth  53 

stead  of  seeping  from  the  eaves,  and  the  winds  of  night 
raving  and  roaring  through  wall  and  window.  Then  if  by 
chance  you  make  one  gold'guinea,  half  of  it  goes  to  Farley 
McKeown  and  the  priest,  and  the  other  half  of  it  goes 
to  the  landlord." 

"But  Farley  McKeown  doesn't  get  any  money  from  us 
at  all,"  said  the  mother  in  a  tone  of  reproof.  "It  is  him 
that  gives  us  money  for  the  knitting." 

"Knitting!"  exclaimed  Fergus,  rising  to  his  feet  and 
striding  up  and  down  the  cabin.  "God  look  sideways  on 
the  knitting!  How  much  are  you  paid  for  your  work? 
One  shilling  and  threepence  for  a  dozen  pairs  of  stockings 
that  takes  the  two  of  you  more  than  a  whole  week  to 
make.  You  might  as  well  be  slaves ;  you  are  slaves,  slaves 
to  the  very  middle  of  your  bones !  How  much  does  Farley 
McKeown  get  for  the  stockings  in  the  big  towns  away  out 
of  here  ?  Four  shillings  a  pair,  I  am  after  hearing.  You 
get  a  penny  farthing  a  pair;  a  penny  farthing!  If  you 
read  some  of  the  books  that  comes  home  with  the  harvest- 
men  you  would  not  suffer  Farley  McKeown  for  long." 

"That  is  it,"  said  the  mother,  winding  the  thread  round 
her  knitting-irons.  "That  is  it !  It  is  the  books  that  the 
harvestmen  take  home  that  puts  the  boy  astray.  It  is  no 
wonder  that  the  priest  condemns  the  books." 

"The  priest!"  said  the  youth  in  a  tone  of  contempt. 
"But  what  is  the  good  of  talking  to  the  likes  of  you? 
How  much  money  have  you  in  the  house?" 

"Sure  you  are  not  going  to  leave  us?"  Norah  ex- 
claimed, gazing  with  large  troubled  eyes  at  her  brother. 

"I  am,"  snapped  Fergus.  "I  am  going  away  this 
evening.  I'll  tramp  the  road  to  Derry  and  take  the  big 
boat  from  there  to  Scotland  or  some  other  place  beyond 
the  water.  What  are  you  crying  for?  Don't  be  a  baby, 
Norah !  I'll  come  back  again  and  make  you  a  lady.  I'll 


54  The  Rat-Pit 

earn  big  piles  of  money  and  send  it  home  at  the  end  of 
every  month." 

James  Ryan  looked  at  his  wife,  and  a  similar  thought 
struck  both  of  them  at  the  same  instant.  The  son  had 
some  book  learning,  and  he  might  get  on  well  abroad  and 
amass  considerable  wealth,  which  he  would  share  with  his 
own  people.  The  old  man  drew  nearer  to  the  fire  and  held 
out  his  bare  feet,  which  were  blue  with  cold,  to  the  flames. 

"If  Fergus  sends  home  money  I'll  get  a  good  strong 
and  warm  pair  of  boots,"  he  said  to  himself ;  then  asked : 
"How  much  money  is  there  in  the  teapot,  Mary?" 

"Twelve  white  shillings  and  sevenpence,"  answered  the 
wife.  "No,  it  is  only  twelve  shillings  and  sixpence. 
Norah  took  a  penny  with  her  to  the  town  yesterday." 

"I  have  a  ha'penny  back  with  me,"  said  the  child,  draw- 
ing a  coin  from  her  weasel-skin  purse.  "I  only  spent 
half  of  the  money  on  bread  yesterday  because  I  was 
not  very  hungry." 

"God  be  merciful  to  us !  but  the  child  is  starving  her- 
self," said  the  old  woman,  clutching  eagerly  at  the  coin 
which  her  daughter  held  towards  her.  "You  can  have 
half  a  gold  guinea,  Fergus,  if  you  are  going  out  to  push 
your  fortune." 


in 


IN  the  evening  when  the  moon  peeped  over  the  western 
hills,  Fergus  Ryan  tied  his  boots  round  his  neck, 
placed  three  bannocks  in  a  woollen  handkerchief  and  went 
out  from  his  father's  door.  The  mother  wept  not  when 
he  was  leaving;  she  had  seen  so  many  of  her  children  go 
out  on  a  much  longer  journey.  Norah  accompanied 
Fergus  for  a  short  distance  and  stopped  where  the  road 
streaked  with  very  faint  lines  of  light  merged  into  the 
darkness.  The  moon  rose  clear  off  the  hills  .  .  .  lights 


Restless  Youth  55 

could  be  seen  glowing  in  the  distance  ...  a  leafless  birch 
waved  its  arms  in  the  breeze  .  .  .  somewhere  a  cow 
was  lowing  and  far  away,  across  the  water,  a  Bally- 
bonar  dog  howled  at  the  stars. 

"I  never  thought  that  I  could  like  the  place  as  much 
as  I  do  now,"  Fergus  said  in  English. 

"It's  the  way  with  everyone  when  they're  going  away," 
answered  his  sister.  "And  I'm  sick  at  heart  that  ye  are 
goin',  Fergus.  Is  Derry  far  away?" 

"A  longish  way " 

"Out  beyont  the  moon,  is  it  ?"  asked  the  child,  pointing 
at  the  hills  and  the  moon  above  them. 

"Maybe,"  said  the  youth;  then  in  a  low  voice:  "D'ye 
know  what  they  do  in  other  countries  when  they  are  say- 
ing'Good-bye' ?" 

"Then  I  don't,"  answered  Norah. 

"They  do  this,"  said  the  young  man,  and  he  pressed  his 
lips  against  his  sister's  cheek. 

"But  they  never  do  that  here,"  said  the  girl,  and  both 
blushed  as  if  they  had  been  discovered  doing  something 
very  wrong.  "I'll  say  a  long  prayer  for  you  every  night, 
when  you  are  away,  Fergus." 

The  boy  looked  at  her,  rubbed  one  bare  foot  on  the 
ground  and  seemed  on  the  point  of  saying  something 
further;  then  without  a  word  he  turned  and  walked  off 
along  the  wet  road.  Norah  kept  looking  after  him  till  he 
was  out  of  sight,  then,  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  she 
went  back  to  her  home. 


CHAPTER   V 


GOOD   NEWS   FROM    A   FAR   COUNTRY 


TOWARDS  the  end  of  the  following  year  a  great 
event  took  place  in  Frosses.  It  was  reported 
that  a  registered  letter  addressed  to  "James  Ryan, 
Esquire,  Meenalicknalore"  was  lying  in  Frosses  post- 
office.  Norah  heard  the  news  and  spoke  of  it  to  her 
father. 

"No  one  but  your  own  self  can  get  the  letter,"  she 
said.  "That  is  what  the  people  at  the  post-office  say. 
You  have  to  write  your  name  down  on  white  paper  too, 
before  the  letter  crosses  the  counter." 

"And  is  it  me,  a  man  who  was  never  at  school,  that  has 
to  put  down  my  name  ?"  asked  James  Ryan  in  a  puzzled 
voice. 

"It  will  be  a  letter  from  the  boy  himself/'  said  the  old 
woman,  who  was  sitting  up  in  bed  and  knitting.  Now  and 
again  she  placed  her  bright  irons  down  and  coughed  with 
such  violence  as  to  shake  her  whole  body.  "And  maybe 
there  is  money  in  the  same  letter.  It  is  not  often  that  we 
have  a  letter  coming  to  us." 

"We  had  none  since  the  last  process  for  the  rent  and 
that  was  two  years  aback,"  said  the  husband.  "Maybe  I 
will  be  going  into  Frosses  and  getting  that  letter  myself 
now." 

56 


Good  News  from  a  Far  Country    57 

"Maybe  you  would,"  stammered  his  wife,  still  battling 
with  her  cough. 

James  Ryan  put  on  his  mairteens  and  left  the  house. 
Norah  watched  him  depart,  and  her  eyes  followed  him 
until  he  turned  the  corner  of  the  road ;  then  she  went  to 
the  bedside  and  sitting  on  a  low  stool  commenced  to  turn 
the  heel  of  a  long  stocking. 

"How  many  days  to  a  day  now  is  it  since  Fergus  took 
the  road  to  Derry?"  asked  the  old  woman.  "I  am  sure 
it  is  near  come  nine  months  this  very  minute." 

"It  is  ten  months  all  but  sixteen  days." 

"Under  God  the  day  and  the  night,  and  is  it  that?" 

"That  it  is  and  every  hour  of  it." 

"He  will  be  across  the  whole  flat  world  since  he  left," 
said  the  mother,  looking  fixedly  at  an  awkward,  ungainly 
calf  which  had  just  blundered  into  the  house,  but  seeing 
far  beyond.  "He  will  maybe  send  five  pounds  in  gold  in 
the  letter." 

"Maybe.  But  you  are  not  thinking  of  that,  mother?" 
said  Norah. 

"And  what  would  you  be  thinking  of,  then  ?"  asked  the 
old  woman. 

"I  am  wondering  if  he  is  in  good  health  and  happy." 

"The  young  are  always  happy,  Norah.    Are  you  not?" 

"Sometimes.  I  am  happy  when  out  in  the  open,  listen- 
ing to  the  birds  singing,  and  the  wind  running  on  the 
heather." 

"Who  ever  heard  of  a  person  listening  to  things  like 
those  ?  Are  you  not  happy  in  God's  house  on  a  Sunday  ?" 

"Oh,  I  am  happy  there  as  well,"  answered  Norah,  but 
there  was  a  hint  of  hesitation  in  the  answer. 

"Everyone  that  is  good  of  heart  is  happy  in  God's 
house,"  said  the  mother.  "Have  you  turned  the  heel  of 
the  stocking  yet?" 

"I  am  nigh  finished  with  the  foot,  mother." 


58  The  Rat-Pit 

"My  own  two  eyes  are  getting  dim,  and  I  cannot  hurry 
like  you  these  days,"  said  the  woman  in  the  bed.  "Run 
those  hens  from  the  house,  and  the  young  sturk  too.  ...  I 
wonder  what  he  is  coming  in  here  for  now,  the  rascal?" 

"Maybe  he  likes  to  be  near  the  fire,"  said  the  child, 
looking  at  the  spotted  calf  that  was  nosing  at  a  dish  on  the 
dresser.  "When  Micky's  Jim  built  a  new  byre  it  was  not 
easy  to  keep  the  cattle  in  it,  for  they  always  wanted  to 
get  back  into  the  warm  house  again." 

With  these  words  she  rose  and  chased  the  young  animal 
out  of  doors,  while  a  few  stray  hens  fluttered  wildly  about 
in  making  their  exit.  "The  cows  like  the  blaze,"  Norah 
went  on  as  she  came  back  and  took  up  her  seat  by  the  fire. 
"Every  evening  they  turn  round  and  look  at  it,  and  you 
can  see  their  big  soft  eyes  shining  through  the  darkness." 

"It  is  the  strange  things  that  you  be  noticing,  alannah, 
but  what  you  say  is  very  true,"  said  the  mother.  "It  will 
be  a  letter  from  Fergus,  I  suppose,  with  five  gold  guineas 
in  it,"  she  went  on.  "Maybe  he  will  be  at  the  back  of 
America  by  now.  .  .  .  If  he  sends  five  gold  guineas  we 
will  make  a  holy  nun  of  you,  Norah,  and  then  you  can 
pray  day  and  night  with  no  one  at  all  to  ask  you  to  do 
anything  but  that  alone." 

"I  might  get  tired  of  it,  mother." 

"Son  of  Mary,  listen  to  her!  Tired  of  saying  your 
prayers,  you  mean?  There  is  that  sturk  at  the  door 
again.  Isn't  he  the  rascal  of  the  world?" 


ii 

DARKNESS  had  fallen  before  James  Ryan  returned 
from    Frosses   post-office,    which   was    over   four 
miles  away.    He  entered  the  cabin,  breathing  heavily,  the 
sweat  streaming  from  his  brow  and  coursing  down  his 


Good  News  from  a  Far  Country     59 

blood-threaded  cheeks.  He  had  run  most  of  the  way 
back,  and  in  his  hand  he  carried  the  letter,  the  first  which 
he  had  received  for  two  whole  years. 

"Mercy  be  on  us,  but  you  are  out  of  breath !"  said  his 
wife,  laying  down  her  knitting  irons,  a  fault  of  which  she 
was  seldom  guilty,  save  when  eating  or  sleeping.  "Put 
one  of  the  rushlights  in  the  fire,  Norah,  and  read  the 
letter  from  foreign  parts.  Is  it  from  the  boy  himself?" 

"Maybe  it  is,"  answered  the  man,  seating  himself  as 
usual  on  an  upturned  creel  in  the  centre  of  the  cabin. 
"The  man  at  the  post-office,  Micky  McNelis,  first  cousin 
he  is  to  Dony  McNelis  that  works  with  Farley  McKeown, 
says  that  it  is  from  a  far  part,  anyway.  'You  must  put 
down  your  own  name,'  said  Micky  to  me,  in  English.  'I 
cannot  write,  for  I  never  had  a  pen  in  my  hand,'  said  I. 
'You  have  to  make  your  mark  then,'  said  he.  'I  don't 
know  how  to  do  that  either,'  said  I.  'I'll  write  your 
name  and  you  have  to  put  a  line  down  this  way  and  a  line 
down  that  way  after  what  I  write,'  said  he,  and,  just  by 
way  of  showing  me,  he  made  a  crooked  cross  with  his  pen 
on  a  piece  of  paper.  Then  I  made  my  mark  and  a  good 
mark  it  was  too,  for  Micky  himself  said  as  much,  and  I 
got  the  letter  there  and  then  into  my  own  two  hands.  If 
it  is  from  the  boy  there  is  not  one  penny  piece  in  it." 

"Why  would  you  be  saying  that  now?" 

"I  could  not  feel  anything  inside  of  it,"  said  the  man. 
"If  there  were  gold  pieces  in  it  I  could  easily  find  them 
through  that  piece  of  paper." 

The  rushlight  was  now  ready ;  the  father  took  it  in  his 
hand  and  stood  beside  Norah,  to  whom  he  gave  the  letter. 
The  woman  leant  forward  in  the  bed ;  her  husband  held 
up  the  light  with  a  shaky  hand ;  dim  shadows  danced  on 
the  roof;  the  young  sturk  again  entered  the  house  and 
took  up  his  stand  in  the  corner.  Norah  having  opened 
the  letter  proceeded  to  read: 


60  The  Rat-Pit 

"DEAR  FATHER  AND  MOTHER  AND  NORAH, 

"I  am  writing  to  say  that  I  am  well,  hoping  to  find 
you  all  at  home  in  the  same  state  of  health.  I  am  far 
away  in  the  middle  of  England  now,  in  a  place  called 
Liverpool  where  I  have  a  job  as  a  dock  labourer " 

"Micky's  Jim  had  that  kind  of  job  the  year  before  last 
in  Glasgow,"  said  the  mother. 

"The  work  is  hard  enough,  heaven  knows,  but  the  pay 
is  good.  I  came  here  from  Derry  and  I  have  been  work- 
ing for  the  most  part  of  the  time  ever  since.  I  intended 
to  write  home  sooner  but  between  one  thing  and  another, 
time  passed  by,  but  now  I  am  sending  you  home  twelve 
pounds,  and  you  can  get  gold  in  Presses  post-office  for 
the  slip  of  paper  which  I  enclose " 

"Under  God  the  day  and  the  night!"  exclaimed  the 
woman  in  the  bed. 

"A  pound  of  this  money  is  for  Norah,  and  she  can  buy 
a  new  dress  for  it.  See  and  don't  let  her  go  to  Green- 
anore  for  yarn  any  more,  or  it  will  be  the  death  of  her, 
sleeping  out  at  night  on  the  rocks  of  Dooey. 

"I  hope  my  mother  is  well  and  that  her  cold  is  getting 
better.  I  spend  all  my  spare  time  reading  books.  It  is  a 
great,  great  world  once  you  are  away  from  Donegal,  and 
here,  where  I  am,  as  many  books  as  one  would  want  to 
carry  can  be  had  for  a  mere  song " 

"Getting  things  for  a  song!"  said  the  man.  "That  is 
like  the  ballad  singers " 

"It  would  be  nice  to  hear  from  you,  but  as  I  am  going 
away  to  America  on  the  day  after  to-morrow,  I  have  no 
fixed  address,  and  it  would  be  next  to  useless  for  you  to 
write  to  me.  I'll  send  a  letter  soon  again,  and  more 
money  when  I  can  earn  it. 

"Your  loving  son 

"FERGUS." 


Good  News  from  a  Far  Country    61 

in 

THIS  is  the  paper  which  he  talks  about."  said 
Norah,  handing  a  money  order  to  her  mother. 

"A  thing  like  that  worth  twelve  pounds!"  exclaimed 
the  old  woman,  a  look  of  perplexity  intensifying  the 
wrinkles  of  her  face.  "I  would  hardly  give  a  white  six- 
pence, no,  nor  a  brown  penny  for  the  little  thing.  Glory 
be  to  God!  but  maybe  it  is  worth  twelve  golden  sover- 
eigns, for  there  are  many  strange  things  that  come  out  of 
foreign  parts." 

"Alive  and  well  he  is,"  said  Norah,  reading  the  letter 
over  again.  "Thank  God  for  that,  for  I  was  afraid  that 
he  might  be  dead,  seeing  that  it  took  him  so  long  to  write 
home.  Wouldn't  I  like  to  see  him  again !" 

"It  will  be  worth  twelve  pounds  without  a  doubt,"  said 
the  husband,  referring  to  the  money  order,  as  he  threw 
the  rushlight  which  was  burning  his  fingers  into  the  fire. 
"I  once  heard  tell  that  a  man  can  get  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  guineas  for  a  piece  of  paper  no  bigger  than 
that!" 

"Mother  of  God!"  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  making 
the  sign  of  the  cross  and  kissing  the  money  order  rap- 
turously. 

"Poor  Fergus !"  said  Norah,  laying  down  the  letter  on 
the  window-sill  and  taking  up  her  needles.  "It  is  a  pity 
of  him  so  far  away  from  his  own  home !" 

"Twelve  gold  sovereigns!"  said  the  mother.  "A  big 
pile  that  without  a  doubt.  Hardly  a  house  in  Frosses  has 
twelve  pounds  inside  tfye  threshold  of  its  door.  Put  out 
that  animal  to  the  fields,"  she  called  to  her  husband. 
"We'll  have  to  build  a  new  byre  and  not  have  the  cattle 
in  the  house  any  longer.  A  funny  thing  indeed  to  have 
them  tied  up  in  a  house  along  with  people  who  can  get 


62  The  Rat-Pit 

twelve  pounds  in  bulk  from  foreign  parts!  No  decent 
body  would  dream  of  such  a  thing  as  having  them  tied  up 
here  now!  Norah,  leave  down  that  stocking.  Let  me 
never  see  you  knitting  under  this  roof  again." 

"Why,  mother?" 

"You  are  going  to  be  a  nun,  a  holy  nun,  Norah,  and 
nuns  never  knit;  they  just  pray  all  day  long  and  all  night 
too.  You  have  to  set  about  and  go  to  school  again.  You 
are  not  to  be  like  other  people's  children  any  more,  knit- 
ting stockings  in  the  ashes.  You  are  going  to  be  a  nun — 
and  there  never  was  a  nun  in  Presses  yet !" 

"I  would  like  to  go  to  school  again,"  said  the  child, 
clinking  her  irons  nervously  and  following  with  her  eyes 
the  blue  flames  that  rose  from  the  peat  fire  and  disap- 
peared in  the  chimney.  "There  is  a  map  of  the  world 
in  the  school,  hanging  on  the  wall,  and  one  can  see  Liver- 
pool on  it  and  America  as  well.  I  could  look  at  them 
and  think  that  I  am  seeing  Fergus  away  in  foreign  parts, 
so  far  from  his  own  home." 

"And  there  is  a  pound  due  to  the  priest  this  minute," 
said  the  old  man,  who  had  just  chased  the  calf  out  into 
the  darkness.  "It  would  be  well  to  give  the  soggarth 
the  money  in  the  morning." 

"And  you'll  go  to  school  again  to-morrow,"  repeated 
the  mother,  who  was  following  up  some  train  of  thought, 
and  who,  curiously  enough,  made  no  mention  of  her  son 
since  the  letter  had  been  read.  "You'll  go  again  to-mor- 
row and  learn  well.  The  master  said  that  you  were  get- 
ting on  fine  the  last  time  you  were  there  and  that  it  was 
a  sin  to  take  you  away  from  the  books." 

Having  said  this,  the  old  woman  lay  back  in  her  bed 
with  a  sigh  of  relief,  the  man  closed  the  door  of  the  house, 
and  drawing  near  to  the  fire  he  held  out  his  feet  to  the 
blaze.  Norah,  glad  to  be  released  from  the  labour  of  the 
knitting  irons,  looked  into  the  flames,  and  many  strange 


Good  News  from  a  Far  Country    63 

pictures  came  and  went  before  her  eyes.  From  time  to 
time  the  woman  in  the  bed  could  be  heard  speaking. 

"Twelve  pounds  for  a  piece  of  paper !"  she  would  ex- 
claim. "Mother  of  God!  But  there  is  strange  things 
in  foreign  lands!" 

Suddenly  Norah  arose  and  approached  the  bed.  "Am 
I  a  good  girl,  mother  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  slight  catch  in 
her  voice. 

"What  silliness  is  entering  your  head?"  enquired  the 
old  woman.  "Who  said  that  you  were  not  good?" 

"You  said  that  good  people  were  happy  in  God's  house, 
but  I  am  not  always  happy  there." 

"Did  I  say  that  ?"  asked  the  mother,  who  had  forgotten 
all  about  the  remark.  "Maybe  I  did  say  it,  maybe  in- 
deed. But  run  away  now  and  don't  bother  me,  for  I  am 
going  to  sleep." 

"A  little  bit  of  paper  to  be  worth  twelve  pounds !"  she 
mumbled  to  herself,  after  a  short  interval  of  silence. 
"Mother  of  God!  but  there  are  many  strange  things  in 
foreign  parts  of  the  world!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

SCHOOL  LIFE 


ON  the  Monday  of  the  week  following  Norah  Ryan 
went  to  school  again.  She  had  been  there  for 
two  years  already  but  left  off  going  when  she 
became  an  adept  at  the  needles.  Master  Diver  had 
control  of  the  school;  he  was  a  fat  little  man,  always 
panting  and  perspiring,  who  frightened  the  children  and 
feared  the  priest.  On  the  way  to  school  he  cut  hazel 
rods  by  the  roadside,  and  when  in  a  bad  mood  he  used 
them  on  the  youngsters.  After  he  had  caned  three  or 
four  children  he  became  good  tempered,  when  he  caned 
half  a  dozen  he  got  tired  of  his  task  and  allowed  the 
remainder  (if  any  remained)  to  go  scot  free.  Some  of  the 
boys  who  worked  in  their  spare  time  at  peat  saving  and 
fishing  had  hands  hard  as  horses'  hooves.  When  these 
did  something  wrong  their  trousers  were  taken  down  and 
awkward  chastisement  was  inflicted  with  severe  simplic- 
ity in  full  view  of  a  breathless  school. 

The  school  consisted  of  a  single  apartment,  at  one  end 
of  which,  on  a  slightly  elevated  platform  near  the  fire,  the 
master's  desk  and  chair  were  placed.  Several  maps,  two 
blackboards,  a  modulator,  which  no  one,  not  even  the 
master  himself,  understood,  and  a  thermometer,  long  de- 
prived of  its  quicksilver,  hung  on  the  walls.  In  one 
corner  were  the  pegs  on  which  the  boys'  caps  were  hung ; 

64 


School  Life  65 

on  a  large  roof-beam  which  spanned  the  width  of  the 
room  the  girls'  shawls  were  piled  in  a  large  heap.  The 
room  boasted  of  two  wide  open  fireplaces,  but  only  one 
of  these  was  ever  lighted ;  the  other  was  used  for  storing 
the  turf  carried  to  school  daily  by  the  scholars.  The 
room  was  swept  twice  weekly ;  then  a  grey  dust  rose  off 
the  floor  and  the  master  and  children  were  seized  with 
prolonged  fits  of  sneezing.  Outside  and  above  the  door 
was  a  large  plate  with  the  inscription, 

GLENMORNAN  NATIONAL  SCHOOL.    1872. 

Over  the  plate  and  under  the  eaves  of  the  building  a  spar- 
row built  its  nest  yearly,  and  it  was  even  reported  that  a 
bat  took  up  its  daily  residence  in  the  same  quarter. 

From  his  seat  beside  the  fire  in  the  schoolroom  the  mas- 
ter watched  his  pupils  through  half-closed  eyes,  save 
when  now  and  again  he  dropped  into  a  sound  sleep  and 
snored  loudly.  Asleep  he  perspired  more  freely  than 
when  awake.  He  was  very  bald,  and  sometimes  a  tame 
robin  that  had  been  in  the  schoolhouse  for  many  years 
fluttered  down  and  rested  on  the  skinny  head  which  shone 
brilliantly  in  the  firelight.  There  the  robin  preened  its 
feathers.  Now  and  then  a  mouse  nibbled  under  the 
boards  of  the  floor,  and  the  children  stopped  their  noisy 
chatter  for  a  moment  to  listen  to  the  movements  of  the 
little  animal. 

Prayers  were  said  morning  and  evening.  The  children 
went  down  on  their  knees,  the  master  prayed  standing 
like  a  priest  at  the  altar.  The  prayers  of  the  morning 
were  repeated  in  English,  those  of  the  evening  in  Gaelic. 

Norah  Ryan  took  her  place  in  the  third  standard.  In 
the  class  the  boys  stood  at  top,  the  girls  at  bottom,  and 
those  of  each  sex  were  ranged  in  order  of  merit.  Norah, 
an  apt  pupil,  easily  took  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  girls, 


66  The  Rat-Pit 

and  the  most  ignorant  of  the  boys,  a  youth  named  Der- 
mod  Flynn,  was  placed  beside  her.  Although  this  lad  got 
caned  on  an  average  three  times  a  day,  he  never  cried 
when  he  was  beaten ;  still,  Norah  Ryan  felt  mutely  com- 
passionate for  him  when  she  heard  the  sharp  hazel  rod 
strike  like  a  whiplash  against  his  hand.  His  usual  pun- 
ishment consisted  of  four  slaps  of  the  rod,  but  always  he 
held  out  his  hand  for  a  fifth ;  this,  no  doubt,  was  done  to 
show  the  master  that  he  did  not  fear  him.  Dermod  could 
not  fix  his  mind  on  any  one  subject;  there  was  usually  a 
far-away  look  in  his  eyes,  which  were  continually  turn- 
ing towards  the  window  and  the  country  outside.  On  the 
calf  of  his  left  leg  a  large  red  scar  showed  where  he  had 
been  bitten  by  a  dog,  and  it  was  known  that  he  would  be- 
come mad  one  day.  When  a  man  is  bitten  by  an  angry 
dog  he  is  sure  to  become  mad  at  some  time  or  another. 
So  they  say  in  Frosses. 

The  third  class  was  usually  ranged  for  lessons  in  a 
semi-circle  facing  the  map  of  the  world,  which,  with  the 
exception  of  the  map  of  Ireland,  was  the  largest  in  the 
school.  On  the  corners  of  the  map  were  pictures  of  vari- 
ous men  and  animals  with  titles  underneath;  which,  go- 
ing the  round  of  the  two  hemispheres,  could  be  read  as 
follows:  Dromedary;  A  Russian  Moujik;  Wild  Boar;  A 
Chinaman;  Leopard;  An  Indian;  Lion;  A  Fiji  Islander; 
etc.,  etc. 

II 

ONE  day  the  master  asked  Dermod  Flynn  if  he  knew 
what  race  of  people  lived  in  Liverpool.    As  usual 
Dermod  did  not  know. 

"Dockers  and  Irishmen,"  Norah  Ryan,  whose  mind 
reverted  to  the  letter  which  had  been  received  from  Fer- 
gus, whispered  under  her  breath. 


School  Life  67 

"Rockets  and  Irishmen,"  Dermod  blurted  out. 

No  one  laughed :  a  rocket  had  never  been  seen  in  Glen- 
mornan,  and  it  would  have  surprised  none  of  the  children 
if  Dermod  were  correct ;  it  would  have  surprised  none  of 
them  if  he  were  wrong.  The  master  reached  for  the 
hazel  rod. 

"Hold  out  your  hand,  Dermod  Flynn,"  he  commanded 
and  delivered  four  blows  on  the  boy's  palm.  Flynn  held 
out  his  hand  for  a  fifth  slap :  the  master  took  no  notice. 

"Now,  Norah  Ryan,  hold  out  your  hand,"  said  the  mas- 
ter. "Promptin'  is  worse  than  tellin'  lies." 

Norah  received  two  slaps,  much  lighter  than  those  de- 
livered to  the  boy.  The  master  knew  that  she  was  going 
to  be  a  nun  one  day,  and  he  respected  her  accordingly, 
but  not  to  such  an  extent  that  he  could  refrain  from  using 
the  rod  of  correction. 

Dermod  Flynn  turned  and  stared  at  Norah.  A  red 
blush  mantled  her  cheeks,  and  she  looked  at  him  shyly 
for  a  moment ;  then  her  lashes  dropped  quickly,  for  she 
felt  that  he  was  looking  into  her  very  soul.  He  appeared 
self-possessed,  impervious  to  the  pain  of  the  master's 
chastisement.  After  a  while  Norah  looked  at  him  again, 
but  he  was  gazing  vacantly  out  of  the  window  at  a  brook 
tumbling  from  the  rocky  hills  that  fringed  the  further 
side  of  the  playground. 

When  school  was  dismissed  and  the  scholars  were  on 
their  way  home,  Dermod  spoke  to  Norah. 

"Why  did  you  help  me  in  the  class  to-day?"  he  asked. 

She  did  not  answer  but  turned  away  and  stared  at  the 
stream  falling  from  the  dark  rocks. 

"It's  like  white  smoke  against  a  black  cloud,"  he  said 
following  her  gaze. 

"What  is?" 

"The  stream  falling  from  the  rocks." 

On  the  day  following  Dermod  got  into  trouble  again. 


68  The  Rat-Pit 

His  class  was  asked  to  write  an  essay  on  fire,  and  Der- 
mod  sat  biting  his  pen  until  the  allotted  time  was  nearly 
finished.  Then  he  scribbled  down  a  few  lines. 

"A  house  without  fire  is  like  a  man  without  a  stomach ; 
a  chimney  without  smoke  is  like  a  man  without  breath, 
for " 

That  was  all.  Dermod  pondered  over  the  word  "stom- 
ach" for  a  while  and  felt  that  it  made  the  whole  sentence 
an  unseemly  one.  He  was  stroking  out  the  word  when 
the  master,  awakening  from  his  sleep,  grabbed  the  essay 
and  read  it.  He  read  it  a  second  time,  then  took  down  a 
hazel  rod  from  the  nail  on  which  it  hung.  The  ignorance 
of  the  boy  who  wrote  such  a  sentence  was  most  profound. 
The  master  caned  Dermod. 

Norah  Ryan  made  rapid  progress  at  her  work,  and 
when  she  went  home  in  the  evening  she  sat  down  on  the 
hassock  and  learned  her  lessons  by  the  light  of  the  peat 
fire.  She  considered  old  Master  Diver  to  be  a  very 
learned  man,  but  somehow  she  could  not  get  herself  to 
like  him.  "Why  does  he  beat  Dermod  Flynn  so  often  ?" 
she  asked  herself  time  and  again,  and  whenever  she 
thought  of  school  she  thought  of  Dermod  Flynn. 

Her  mother,  who  had  improved  in  health,  now  that 
there  was  food  to  eat,  brought  a  looking-glass  from 
Greenanore  one  day.  She  paid  fourpence  halfpenny  for 
it  in  "McKeown's  Great  Emporium,"  the  new  business 
which  had  just  been  started  by  the  yarn  merchant.  Norah 
dressed  her  hair  in  front  of  this  glass,  and  one  day  when 
engaged  in  the  task,  she  said :  "I  wish  I  could  see  Der- 
mod Flynn  now !"  Perhaps  she  really  meant  to  say :  "I 
wish  Dermod  Flynn  could  see  me  now!"  In  any  case 
she  got  so  red  in  the  face  that  her  mother  asked  her  what 
was  wrong. 

Shortly  afterwards  Dermod  Flynn's  school  troubles 
came  to  an  end.  His  class  was  standing  as  usual,  facing 


School  Life  69 

the  map  of  the  world,  and  Master  Diver  asked  Dermod 
to  point  out  Corsica.  The  boy  did  not  know  where  Cor- 
sica was ;  he  stared  at  the  map,  holding  the  idle  pointer 
in  his  hand. 

"Point  out  Corsica!"  the  master  repeated,  and  seized 
the  youth  by  the  ear,  which  he  pulled  vigorously.  The 
blood  mounted  to  the  boy's  cheeks,  and  raising  the  pointer 
suddenly  he  hit  the  master  sharply  across  the  face. 

"You've  killed  him,  Dermod  Flynn!"  Norah  Ryan 
gasped  involuntarily.  The  old  fellow  put  his  hands  over 
his  face  and  sank  down  limply  on  the  form.  Blood 
trickled  through  his  fingers  ...  a  fly  settled  on  his  bald 
head  .  .  .  the  scholars  stared  aghast  at  their  fallen  mas- 
ter. Dermod  gazed  at  the  old  man  for  a  moment,  then 
seizing  his  cap  he  rushed  out  of  the  schoolroom.  Most 
of  the  boys  followed  the  example,  and  when  the  master, 
who  only  suffered  from  a  slight  flesh  wound,  regained  his 
feet  and  looked  round,  the  school  was  almost  deserted. 

Dermod  Flynn  did  not  return  again,  and  after  his  de- 
parture Norah  found  that  she  did  not  like  the  school  so 
much  as  formerly. 


CHAPTER   VII 

PLUCKING  BOG-BINE 


THE  May  of  1903  came  round,  and  on  every  twelfth 
day  of  May  the  young  boys  and  girls  of  Done- 
gal start  for  the  hiring  fair  of  Strabane.  The 
rumour  went  that  Dermod  Flynn  was  going  now,  but  ho 
one  knew  for  certain;  the  Flynns  being  a  close-mouthed 
people  gave  no  secrets  away.  On  the  evening  preceding 
the  twelfth,  Norah  heard  of  Dermod's  intended  depar- 
ture and  that  night  she  was  long  in  falling  asleep.  Her 
bed  was  made  on  the  floor  beside  the  fire ;  a  grey  woollen 
blanket  served  a  double  debt  to  pay,  and  was  used  as  a 
blanket  and  sheet.  But  the  sleeping  place  was  not  cold ; 
the  heat  of  the  fire  and  the  breath  of  the  kine  kept  it 
warm. 

The  first  bird  was  twittering  on  the  thatch  and  the  first 
tint  of  dawn  was  tingeing  the  sky  when  Norah  awoke,  sat 
up  in  bed  and  threw  part  of  the  blanket  aside.  At  the 
further  end  of  the  house  where  it  was  still  dark  cattle 
were  stamping,  and  bright  eyes  could  be  seen  glowing 
like  coals.  The  child  rose,  went  to  the  window,  pulled  up 
the  blind  and  looked  out  on  the  sea.  She  stood  there  for  a 
moment  rapt  in  reverie,  her  pure  white  bosom  showing 
above  her  low-cut  cotton  chemise  and  her  long  tresses 
hanging  down  loosely  over  her  shoulders.  She  was  now 
fourteen. 

70 


Plucking  Bog-Bine  71 

Her  short  reverie  came  to  an  end ;  she  crossed  herself 
many  times  and  proceeded  to  dress,  taking  unusual  care 
with  her  hair,  weaving  it  into  two  long  plaits,  and  polish- 
ing her  boots  carefully.  These,  the  second  pair  of  her 
life,  were  studded  with  nails  which  she  liked  to  hear  rasp- 
ing on  the  ground  as  she  walked.  At  night  she  noticed 
that  the  nails  were  bright  and  shiny ;  in  the  mornings  they 
were  always  brown  with  rust.  She  recollected,  not  with- 
out a  certain  amount  of  satisfaction,  that  she  was  the 
only  girl  wearing  shoes  at  Frosses  school.  But  she  could 
well  afford  it;  Fergus  had  sent  twenty  pounds  to  his 
parents  and  three  pounds  to  herself  since  he  left  home. 

Her  father  and  mother  were  asleep  in  the  bed;  the 
former  snoring  loudly,  the  latter  coughing  drowsily  from 
time  to  time.  The  cat,  which  had  been  in  the  house  since 
Norah  could  remember,  was  curled  atop  of  the  blanket 
and  fast  asleep. 

A  movement  occurred  in  the  bed  as  Norah  finished  her 
toilet;  the  cat  stirred  itself,  stretched  its  front  legs, 
spreading  out  its  claws,  yawned  and  fell  asleep  again. 

"Son  of  Mary!  but  you  are  up  early,  Norah!"  ex- 
claimed her  mother,  sitting  up  in  bed ;  then  seeing  the  cat 
she  gave  the  blankets  a  vigorous  shake  and  cried :  "Get 
out,  you  little  devil !  You  lie  in  bed  as  if  you  were  a  per- 
son and  no  less !" 

"I  am  going  to  pull  bog-bine  on  the  hills  of  Glenmor- 
nan  for  your  sickness,  mother." 

"But  would  it  not  be  time  enough  for  you  to  go  there 
come  noon  ?" 

"It  is  as  well  to  go  now,  mother." 

"Then  it  is,  alannah,  if  you  have  the  liking  for  it,"  said 
the  old  woman.  "See  and  turn  the  cattle  into  the  holm 
below  the  Holy  Rocks  before  you  go  away."- 

"I  will  do  that,  mother." 


72  The  Rat-Pit 

"And  put  the  blind  up  on  the  window  again,  for  the 
light  is  getting  into  my  eyes." 

Norah  untied  the  cattle  from  their  stakes  and  opened 
the  door.  The  old  brindled  cow  went  out  first,  lazily  lash- 
ing her  legs  with  her  long  tail,  and  smelt  the  door-post  as 
she  passed  soberly  into  the  open.  The  second  cow,  a 
fawn-grey  beast,  was  followed  by  a  restless,  awkward 
calf  that  mischievously  nudged  the  hindquarters  of  the 
animal  in  front  with  its  nose.  The  Ryans  possessed  three 
cattle  only,  and  the  byre  which  the  old  woman  had  wanted 
erected  was  now  in  process  of  construction. 

When  the  young  calf  got  into  the  field  he  jumped  ex- 
ultantly into  the  air  and  rushed  madly  off  for  the  distance 
of  a  hundred  yards ;  then,  planting  His  forefeet  squarely 
in  the  earth,  as  suddenly  stopped  and  turned  round  to 
look  at  the  two  cows.  Surprised  that  they  had  not  fol- 
lowed him,  he  scampered  back  to  where  they  were  crop- 
ping noisily  at  the  short  grass,  and  with  his  head  dunted 
the  brindled  cow  on  the  belly.  The  old  animal  turned 
round,  her  mouth  full  of  grass,  and  gave  a  reproving 
nudge  with  her  warm,  damp  nose  which  sent  the  calf 
scampering  off  again. 

The  houses  of  Meenalicknalore  were  arranged  in  a  row 
on  the  top  of  a  brae^that  swept  down  to  the  sea,  shoving 
its  toes  into  the  water.  A  curl  of  smoke  rose  from  some 
of  the  houses;  others  gave  no  hint  of  human  activity. 
"A  chimney  without  smoke  is  like  a  man  without  breath," 
quoted  Norah.  "I  wonder  how  Dermod  Flynn  thinks  of 
things  like  that ;  and  to-day  he  is  goin'  away  all  alone  by 
himself  across  the  mountains." 

She  came  to  the  Three  Rocks;  three  large  masses  of 
limestone,  one  long  and  perpendicular,  the  other  two 
squat  and  globular,  which  the  peasantry  supposed  to  rep- 
resent the  Holy  Trinity.  Here  Norah  said  her  prayers, 
one  "Our  Father"  and  three  "Hail  Mary's"  in  front  of 


Plucking  Bog-Bine  73 

each  of  the  two  smaller  stones,  and  the  Apostles'  Creed 
in  front  of  the  large  rock  in  the  centre.  When  her  prayers 
were  finished  she  drove  the  cattle  into  a  holm,  put  a  bush 
in  the  gap  and  resumed  her  journey. 

The  sun  had  just  risen  .  .  .  a  wind  cool  and  moist 
blew  in  from  the  bosom  of  the  sea  .  .  .  little  tufts  of 
thistledown  trembled  through  the  air,  dropped  to  the 
ground,  rose  again  and  vanished  in  the  distance  .  .  . 
wrens  chirped  in  the  juniper  .  .  .  frogs  chuckled  in  the 
meadows  ...  a  rabbit  with  eyes  alert,  ears  aback  and 
tail  acock  ran  along  the  roadway  and  disappeared  under 
a  clump  of  furze  .  .  .  clouds  floating  across  the  sky  like 
large,  lazy,  wingless  birds  slowly  assumed  a  delicate  rosy 
tint  until  they  looked  like  mother-of-pearl  inside  a  giant 
shell. 

Norah,  very  excited  and  very  happy,  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment to  look  into  a  clear  well  by  the  roadside.  On  her 
face  was  the  expectant  look  of  a  sweet  kitten  that  waits 
for  the  ball  to  be  thrown  to  it;  her  two  plaits  of  hair 
hung  over  her  shoulders,  one  delicate  strand  that  had 
fallen  away  fluttering  in  the  breeze.  She  looked  approv- 
ingly into  the  calm  water  at  the  laughing  face  that  smiled 
up  to  her. 

"How  good  to  be  out  here,  to  be  alive,  to  be  young," 
she  seemed  to  say  to  herself.  "Everything  is  so  fair,  so 
beautiful,  so  wonderful  1" 

II 

ABOUT  six  o'clock  Norah  entered  Glenmornan.  Here 
she  met  three  boys  and  two  girls  bound  for  the 
rabble  market  of  Strabane.  One  of  the  boys  was  whis- 
tling a  tune,  the  other  two  chattered  noisily;  the  girls, 
who  were  silent,  carried  each  a  pair  of  hob-nailed  boots 
hung  over  their  shoulders. 


74  The  Rat-Pit 

"Good  luck  to  your  journey,"  said  Norah  Ryan,  by 
way  of  salutation. 

"And  to  yours,"  they  answered. 

"Are  there  lots  of  ones  a-goin'  this  mornin'?"  she 
asked  in  English. 

"Lots,"  answered  one  of  the  girls,  making  the  sign  of 
the  cross  on  her  brow.  "Two  gasairs  of  Oiney  Dinchy's, 
one  of  Cormac  of  the  Hill's  ones,  seven  or  more  from  the 
townland  of  Dooran,  and  more  besides." 

"Many  goin'  from  Glenmornan  ?" 

"Lots,"  said  the  boy  who  had  been  whistling. 

Norah  waited  for  him  to  proceed,  but  finding  that  he 
remained  silent,  she  enquired  as  to  who  was  going. 

"Condy  Dan,  Hudy  Neddy,  Columb  Kennedy,  Unah 
Roarty  and" — the  boy  paused  for  a  moment  to  scratch 
his  head — "and  Dermod  Flynn,  the  gasair  that  struck 
Master  Diver  with  the  pointer." 

"Well,  good  luck  to  yer  journey,"  said  Norah,  shaking 
the  hand  of  each  of  them  in  turn.  "May  God  be  with  ye 
all  till  ye  come  back!" 

"And  with  yerself  for  ever." 

The  crooked  road  twisted  round  copse  and  knoll,  now 
bordering  the  river,  now  rising  well  up  on  the  shoulder 
of  the  hill,  and  along  this  road  Norah  hurried,  her  hands 
hanging  idly  by  her  side  and  her  plaits  when  caught  by 
an  errant  breeze  fluttering  over  her  shoulders.  Half-way 
along  the  Glenmornan  road  she  met  Dermod  Flynn. 

"Where  are  ye  for  this  mornin',  Dermod?"  she  asked. 
She  knew  where  he  was  going,  and  after  speaking  felt 
that  she  should  not  have  asked  him  that  question. 

"Beyond  the  mountains,"  answered  the  youth  with  a 
smile  which  showed  his  white  teeth.  In  one  hand  he  car- 
ried a  bundle,  in  the  other  an  ash-plant  with  a  heavy 
knob  at  the  end.  The  young  fellows  of  Glenmornan  had 
got  into  a  habit  of  carrying  sticks  in  imitation  of  the  cattle 


Plucking  Bog-Bine  75 

drovers  who  came  once  every  month  to  the  fair  of  Green- 
anore. 

"Ye'll  not  come  back  for  a  long  while,  will  ye  ?"  Norah 
asked. 

"I'm  never  goin'  to  come  back  again,"  Dermod  an- 
swered. At  this  Norah  laughed,  but,  strangely  enough, 
she  felt  ready  to  cry.  All  that  she  intended  to  say  to  him 
was  forgotten ;  she  held  out  her  hand,  stammered  a  con- 
fused good-bye  and  hurried  away. 

"His  eyes  are  on  me  now,"  she  said  several  times  to 
herself  as  she  walked  away,  and  every  time  she  spoke  a 
blush  mounted  to  her  cheeks.  She  wanted  to  look  back, 
but  did  not  do  so  until  she  came  to  the  first  bend  of  the 
road.  There  she  turned  round,  but  Dermod  Flynn  had 
gone  from  sight  and  a  great  loneliness  entered  the  girl's 
heart.  A  steer  with  wide,  curious  eyes  watched  her  from 
a  field  beside  the  road,  the  water  sang  a  song,  all  its  own, 
as  it  dropped  from  the  hills,  and  the  Glen  River,  viewed 
from  the  point  where  Norah  stood,  looked  like  a  streak 
of  silver  on  a  cloth  of  green.  But  the  girl  saw  and  heard 
none  of  these  things,  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  crooked 
road  which  ran  on  through  holt  and  hollow  as  far  as  the 
village  of  Greenanore,  and  miles  and  miles  beyond. 

She  stood  there  for  a  long  time  lost  in  reverie.  Der- 
mod Flynn  was  gone  now,  and  he  would  never  come  back 
again.  So  he  had  told  her.  Suddenly,  she  recollected  why 
she  had  come  out  on  the  journey.  "To  pluck  bog-bine  it 
was,"  she  murmured.  "I  am  after  forgetting  that !" 

She  went  across  the  river  by  the  ford  and  climbed  the 
hill.  From  the  top  of  the  knoll  she  could  see  the  train 
steam  out  from  the  station  of  Greenanore.  In  it  were 
the  children  bound  for  the  rabble  market  of  Strabane. 
Norah  stared  and  stared  at  the  train,  which  crawled  like 
a  black  caterpillar  across  the  brown  moor,  leaving  a  trail 
of  white  smoke  behind  it. 


76  The  Rat-Pit 

"I'm  after  forgettin'  that  I  came  out  to  pluck  bog- 
bine,"  she  repeated  when  the  train  had  disappeared  from 
sight,  and  taking  off  her  boots,  she  picked  her  way  across 
the  soft  and  spongy  moor. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE   TRAGEDY 


OFTEN  a  youth  leaves  Donegal  and  goes  out  into 
the  world,  does  well  for  a  time,  writes  fre- 
quently home  to  his  own  people,  sends  them  a 
sum  of  money  in  every  letter  (which  shows  that  he  is  not 
a  spendthrift),  asking  them  for  a  little  gift  in  return,  a 
scapular  blessed  by  the  priest,  or  a  bottle  of  water  from 
the  holy  well  (which  shows  that  he  has  not  forgotten  the 
faith  in  which  he  was  born)  ;  but  in  the  end  he  ceases  to 
write,  drops  out  of  the  ken  of  his  people  and  disappears. 
The  father  mourns  the  son  for  a  while,  regrets  that  the 
usual  money-order  is  not  forthcoming,  weeps  little,  for 
too  much  sentiment  is  foreign  to  the  hardened  sensibili- 
ties of  the  poor ;  the  mother  tells  her  beads  and  does  not 
fail  to  say  one  extra  decade  for  the  boy  or  to  give  a  hard- 
earned  guinea  to  the  priest  for  masses  for  the  gasair's 
soul.  Time  rapidly  dries  their  tears  of  regret,  their  sor- 
row disappears  and  the  more  pressing  problems  of  their 
lives  take  up  their  whole  interests  again.  In  later  years 
they  may  learn  that  their  boy  died  of  fever  in  a  hospital, 
or  was  killed  by  a  broken  derrick- jib,  or  done  to  death  by 
a  railway  train.  "Them  foreign  parts  were  always  bad," 
they  may  say.  "Black  luck  be  with  the  big  boat,  for  it's 
few  it  takes  back  of  the  many  it  takes  away !" 

A  year  had  passed  by  since  James  Ryan  last  heard 
from  Fergus  his  son.    No  word  came  of  the  youth,  and 

77 


78  The  Rat-Pit 

none  of  the  Frosses  people,  great  travellers  though  the 
young  of  Frosses  were,  had  ever  come  across  him  in  any 
corner  of  the  world. 

"We  are  missing  the  blue  pieces  of  paper,"  Mary  Ryan 
said  to  her  husband  one  evening  in  the  late  autumn,  fully 
three  years  after  Fergus's  departure.  She  now  spent  her 
days  sitting  at  the  fire,  and  though  her  health  was  not  the 
best  it  had  greatly  improved  within  recent  years.  "They 
were  the  papers !"  she  exclaimed.  "They  could  buy  meal 
in  the  town  of  Greenanore  and  pay  the  landlord  his  rent. 
Maybe  the  gasair  is  dead !" 

"Maybe  he  is,"  the  husband  answered.  He  was  a  man 
of  few  words  and  fewer  ideas.  Life  to  him,  as  to  the 
animals  of  the  fields,  was  naturally  simple.  He  married, 
became  the  father  of  many  children,  all  unnecessary  to  an 
overcrowded  district,  and  most  of  them  were  flicked  out 
by  death  before  they  were  a  year  old.  Once  every  eight- 
een months  James  Ryan's  wife  became  suddenly  irritable 
and  querulous  and  asked  her  husband  to  leave  the  house 
for  a  while.  The  cattle  were  allowed  to  remain  inside, 
the  husband  went  out  and  walked  about  in  the  vicinity  of 
his  home  for  two  or  three  hours.  From  time  to  time  he 
would  go  up  to  the  door  and  call  out:  "Are  you  all 
right,  Mary?"  through  the  keyhole.  "I  am  all  right, 
Shemus,"  she  would  answer,  and  the  man  would  resume 
his  walk.  When  the  wife  allowed  him  to  come  in  he 
always  found  that  his  family  had  increased  in  number. 

One  day  a  child  was  born  to  him,  and  its  third  breath 
killed  it.  It  was  the  seventh,  and  the  year  was  a  bad  one. 
Potatoes  lay  rotting  in  the  fields,  and  the  peat  being  wet 
refused  to  burn.  Somehow  James  Ryan  felt  a  great  re- 
lief when  the  child  was  buried.  Twelve  children  in  all 
were  born  to  him,  and  ten  of  these  died  before  they 
reached  the  age  of  three.  "The  hunger  took  them,  I  sup- 
pose," he  said,  and  never  wept  over  any  of  his  offspring, 


The  Tragedy  79 

and  even  in  time  forgot  the  names  of  most  of  those  who 
were  dead.  The  third  who  came  to  him  was  the  boy 
Fergus ;  Norah  was  the  youngest  of  all. 

"Maybe,  indeed,  he  is  dead,"  he  repeated  to  his  wife. 
"I  suppose  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  put  out  the  cur- 
ragh  to  the  fishing  again." 

"And  never  catch  anything,"  said  his  wife,  as  if  blam- 
ing him  for  the  ill-luck.  "It  is  always  the  way.  ...  If 
Fergus  would  send  a  few  gold  guineas  now  it  would  be 
a  great  help." 

"It  would  be  a  great  help." 

"We  could  keep  Norah  at  school  for  another  year." 

"We  could." 

"And  then  send  her  to  the  convent  like  a  lady." 

"Just." 

"When  are  you  going  to  put  the  curragh  out  again  ?" 

"Maybe  this  very  night,"  answered  the  husband.  "It 
is  now  Michaelmas  a  week  past.  There  were  blue  lights 
seen  out  beyond  the  bar  last  night,  and  a  sea-gull  dropped 
from  the  sky  and  fell  dead  on  the  rocks  of  Dooey.  The 
same  happened  ten  years  ago,  and  at  that  time  there  was 
a  big  catch  out  by  Arranmore." 

"Then  you  had  better  go  out  to-night,  for  there  is  not 
much  money  in  the  tea-pot  this  minute." 

"The  byre  cost  a  big  penny,"  said  James  Ryan,  and  he 
spoke  as  if  regretting  something. 

"It  did  that,  and  the  house  does  not  look  half  as  well 
with  the  cattle  gone  from  it."  So  saying  the  woman 
turned  over  some  live  turf  on  the  pile  of  potatoes  that 
was  toasting  beside  the  fire,  and  rising  emptied  part  of 
the  contents  of  a  jug  of  milk  into  a  bowl.  "It  is  a  won- 
der that  Norah  is  not  in,"  she  remarked.  "She  should  be 
back  from  school  over  an  hour  ago." 


8o  The  Rat-Pit 


ii 

AT  that  moment  Norah  entered,  placed  her  cotton 
satchel  and  books  on  the  window  sill,  and  sat  down 
to  her  meal.  She  was  a  winsome  girl,  neat,  delicate  and 
good-looking.  She  had  grown  taller;  her  tresses  were 
glossier,  her  clear  grey  eyes,  out  of  which  the  radiance 
of  her  pure  soul  seemed  to  shine,  were  dreamy  and 
thoughtful.  She  was  remarkable  for  a  pure  and  exquisite 
beauty,  not  alone  of  body,  but  of  mind.  She  was  dressed 
in  peasant  garb,  but  her  clothes,  though  patched  and 
shabby,  showed  the  lines  of  her  well-formed  figure  to 
advantage.  Her  feet  were  small,  an  unusual  thing 
amongst  country  children  who  run  about  bare-footed, 
and  her  dainty  little  hands  matched  her  feet  to  perfec- 
tion. Her  accomplishments  were  the  knowledge  of  a  few 
Irish  songs  and  country  dances,  and  her  intellectual  gifts 
could  be  summed  up  in  the  words,  simple  innocence. 

"Are  you  getting  on  well  with  your  lessons,  Norah?" 
asked  the  father. 

Every  day  for  the  last  two  years,  on  her  return  from 
school,  he  asked  a  similar  question  and  took  no  heed  of 
the  answer,  which  was  always  the  same. 

"I  am  getting  on  very  well,  father." 

"He's  going  out  to  the  fishing  to-night,"  said  the 
mother,  handing  a  bowl  of  milk  to  Norah  and  pointing 
her  finger  at  her  husband. 

"Any  letter  from  Fergus  ?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Never  a  word,"  said  the  mother.  "Maybe  one  will  be 
here  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow  never  comes,"  said  James  Ryan.  He  had 
heard  somebody  use  this  phrase  years  ago  and  he  re- 
peated it  almost  hourly  ever  since.  "It  is  off  on  the  cur- 
ragh  that  I  am  going  now." 


The  Tragedy  81 

He  rose  and  went  out.  The  dusk  had  fallen  and  a 
heaven  of  brilliant  stars  glittered  overhead.  A  light  gust 
of  wind  surged  up  angrily  for  a  moment  and  swept  along 
the  ground,  crooning  amidst  rock  and  boulder.  Outside 
James  Ryan  stood  for  a  moment  and  looked  up  at  the 
sky,  his  thoughts  running  on  the  conversation  which  had 
just  taken  place  inside.  "To-morrow  never  comes,"  he 
repeated  and  hurried  towards  the  sea. 

Mary  Ryan  lit  the  paraffin  lamp  which  hung  from  the 
great  beam  that  stretched  across  the  middle  of  the  house. 
The  rushlight  was  now  used  no  longer ;  the  oil  lamp  had 
taken  its  place  in  most  of  the  houses  in  Frosses.  Norah 
finished  her  meal  and  turned  to  her  books.  For  a  long 
while  there  was  silence  in  the  cabin,  but  outside  the  wind 
was  rising,  whirling  round  the  corners  and  sweeping  in 
under  the  door. 

"Tell  me  a  story,  mother,"  Norah  said,  putting  her 
books  aside  and  curling  up  like  a  pretty  ball  on  the 
earthen  floor  in  front  of  the  fire. 

"All  right,  I  will  tell  you  a'  story,  silly  baby  that  you 
are!"  said  the  old  woman,  sitting  down  on  the  hassock 
by  the  hearth.  "Will  it  be  about  the  wee  red-headed  man 
with  the  flock  of  goats  before  him,  and  the  flock  of  goats 
behind  him,  and  the  salmon  tied  to  the  laces  of  his 
brogues  for  supper?" 

"Not  that  one,  a  maghair,  I  know  it  myself." 

"Will  it  be  about  Kitty  the  Ashy  pet  who  said  'Let  you 
be  combing  there,  mother,  and  I'll  be  combing  here,'  and 
who  went  up  the  Bay  of  Baltic,  carrying  the  Rock  of 
Cattegat  on  her  shoulders?" 

"I  know  that  one,  mother." 

"And  the  Bonnie  Bull  of  Norway  you  know  as  well. 
Then  it  will  be  about  the  cat  that  would  not  dress  its 
whiskers  if  it  wasn't  in  front  of  the  biggest  looking-glass 


82  The  Rat-Pit 

in  all  the  world.  The  biggest  looking-glass  in  all  the 
wide  world  is  the  broad  ocean  in  a  calm." 

"Not  that  one,  mother." 

"You  are  hard  to  please  this  very  night.  I  will  tell  you 
the  story  of  the  little  green-coated  boy  who  wandered  on 
the  rainy  roads.  .  .  .  There's  the  wind  rising.  Mercy  of 
God  be  on  your  father  if  the  sea  is  out  of  order !" 

Mary  Ryan  began  the  story  which  she  knew  by  heart, 
having  heard  it  so  often  from  the  lips  of  her  own  mother. 
Here,  it  may  be  remarked,  most  of  the  folk  stories  of 
Donegal  are  of  Norwegian  or  Danish  origin  and  have  in 
many  cases  been  so  well  preserved  that  the  Scandinavian 
names  of  people  and  places  are  retained  in  the  stories  un- 
til the  present  day. 

"Once  upon  a  time  when  cows  were  kine  and  when 
eagles  of  the  air  built  their  nests  in  the  beards  of  giants, 
a  little  green-coated  boy  with  a  stick  in  his  hand  and  a 
bundle  of  bannocks  over  his  shoulder  went  out  on  the 
rainy  roads  to  push  his  fortune " 


in 


I'M  going  to  marry  a  prince  when  I  get  very  old, 
mother,"  said  Norah,  interrupting  the  story-teller. 
"Prince  Charming,  for  that's  what  the  girl  did  in  the 
fairy  stories  when  she  grew  up  and  got  old  at  twenty  or 
twenty-one.  She  was  very  poor  at  first  and  did  nothing 
grand,  but  stopped  at  home,  sweeping  the  floor  and  wash- 
ing dishes.  Then  one  night  an  old  woman  came  down  the 
chimney  and  told  the  girl  to  go  to  a  dance,  and  the  girl 
didn't  leave  the  dance  in  time  and  she  lost  one  of  her 

slippers  and Oh!  it  was  a  great  story,  mother.     I 

read  it  in  a  book  that  Fergus  had." 
"You  were  reading  those  books,  too !" 


The  Tragedy  83 

"Just  only  that  one,  mother,  and  Fergus  didn't  like 
it  at  all.  He  said  it  was  very  silly !" 

"So  it  was,  alannah,  when  it  put  thoughts  like  that 
into  your  head.  Marry  Prince  Charming,  and  you  going 
to  be  a  holy  nun !  Nuns  never  marry  like  that." 

"Don't  they?  Well,  I'll  not  marry  a  Prince  Charming. 
I'll  marry  one  of  the  White  Horsemen  who  are  under  the 
mountain  of  Aileach." 

"But  nuns  never  marry  anybody." 

"They  don't?"  exclaimed  Norah  in  a  puzzled  voice. 
Then  with  childish  irrelevance:  "But  tell  me  the  story 
about  the  White  Horsemen  of  Aileach,  mother.  That's 
the  best  story  of  all." 

"Long,  long  ago,  when  the  red-haired  strangers  came 
to  Ireland,  they  put  nearly  everybody  to  the  sword;  the 
old  and  young,  the  fit  and  feeble,  and  mind  you,  Ireland 
was  in  worse  than  a  bad  way,"  the  mother  began,  drift- 
ing easily  into  her  narrative.  "Ireland  was  a  great  place 
in  those  days  with  castles  and  kings.  Kings,  Norah! 
There  were  five  of  them ;  now  there  isn't  even  one  in  the 
four  corners  of  the  country.  But  the  red-haired  stran- 
gers came  like  a  storm  from  the  sea  and  there  was  no 
standing  before  them.  Red  were  their  swords,  red  as 
their  hair,  but  not  with  rust  but  with  the  blood  of  men, 
women,  and  children.  And  the  chieftains  of  Ireland  and 
the  men  of  Ireland  could  make  no  stand  against  the 
enemy  atall.  'What  am  I  to  do?'  cried  the  Ardrigh,  the 
top  king  of  the  whole  country,  speaking  from  the  door  of 
his  own  castle.  'There  will  soon  be  no  Ireland  belonging 
to  me,  it  will  all  go  to  the  red-haired  strangers.'  Then  up 
spoke  an  old  withered  stick  of  a  man,  that  nobody  knew, 
and  who  had  been  listening  to  the  words  of  the  King. 

"  'Have  you  asked  the  Chieftain  of  the  White  Horse- 
men for  help?' 


84  The  Rat-Pit 

"  'I  never  met  him,  decent  stranger,'  answered  the 
King.  'I  know  him  not/ 

"  'Go  to  the  sea  when  it  strikes  in  storm  on  the  coast 
of  Tir  Conail,'  said  the  old  man  to  the  King,  'and  call  out 
to  Maanan  MacLir  for  aid  and  he'll  send  to  your  help  his 
ten  score  and  ten  white  horsemen.  You'll  see  the  white 
horses  far  out,  rearing  on  the  top  of  the  waves,  every 
steed  pawing  the  ocean  and  all  mad  for  the  fight  before 
them.' 

"Well,  to  cut  a  long  story  short,  the  King  did  as  he  was 
told  and  called  to  the  White  Horsemen  to  come  and  help 
him,  and  they  came,  ten  score  of  them  and  ten,  with  their 
shields  shining  like  polished  silver  and  lances  bright  as 
frosty  stars.  Down  from  the  North  they  rode,  driving 
the  foe  on  in  front  of  them,  and  never  was  seen  such  a 
rout,  neither  in  the  days  that  went  before  nor  the  days 
that  came  after.  The  White  Horsemen  cut  their  way 
right  through  mountains  in  their  haste  to  get  to  the  other 
side;  for  nothing  could  stand  against  their  lances.  No- 
body could  go  as  quickly  as  them,  not  even  the  red-haired 
strangers  who  were  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  out  of  their 
way. 

"And  when  victory  was  theirs,  the  White  Horsemen 
came  back  here  to  Tir  Conail  again  and  stood  on  the 
verge  of  the  ocean  while  Maanan  MacLir  headed  his 
horse  out  on  the  waves.  But  lo,  and  behold!  the  steed 
could  no  longer  gallop  across  the  water.  The  poor  ani- 
mal sank  into  the  sea  and  the  chieftain  was  nearly 
drowned.  At  that  moment  a  voice,  nobody  knew  where 
it  came  from,  called  to  Maanan  MacLir : 

"  'Long  enough  has  the  sea  called  for  the  rest  and  quiet 
that  was  not  given  to  it  by  the  white  horses  of  MacLir. 
Never  more  will  the  sea  bend  under  them;  now  it  will 
break  apart  and  let  them  through !' 

"When  they  heard  these  words  the  White  Horsemen 


The  Tragedy  85 

turned  away  from  the  sea  and  went  galloping  to  the  foot 
of  the  Mountain  of  Aileach.  When  they  arrived  there 
the  mountain  raised  itself  upon  one  side  just  like  the  lid 
of  a  kettle  and  Maanan  MacLir  and  his  White  Horsemen 
disappeared  under  it.  Since  that  day  they  have  never 
been  seen  again." 

"But  the  mountain  didn't  close  on  top  of  them,  did  it?" 
asked  Norah. 

"Of  course  it  did.    Isn't  it  closed  to  this  very  day?" 

"And  will  it  be  a  true  story?" 

"True,  child !"  exclaimed  the  mother.  "Sure  the  moun- 
tain is  there  to  this  very  hour.  And  besides,  Saint  Co- 
lumbkille  talks  about  it  in  his  prophecies." 

"Then  the  White  Horsemen  will  come  out  again?" 

"They'll  come  out  when  the  great  war  comes,"  said  the 
mother.  "And  that  will  be  when  there  are  roads  round 
every  mountain  like  the  frills  round  the  cap  of  an  old 
woman.  It  will  start,  the  great  war,  when  the  nights 
lengthen  and  the  year  grows  brown,  between  the  seasons 
of  scythe  and  sickle ;  murder  and  slaughter,  madder  than 
cattle  in  the  heat  of  summer,  will  run  through  the  land, 
and  the  young  men  will  be  killed  and  the  middle-aged 
men  and  the  old.  The  very  crutches  of  the  cripples  will 
be  taken  out  to  arm  the  fighters,  and  the  bed-ridden  will 
be  turned  three  times  three  in  their  beds  to  see  if  they 
are  fit  to  go  into  the  field  of  battle.  Death  will  take  them 
all,  for  that  is  how  it  is  to  be;  that  way  and  no  other. 
And  when  they're  all  gone  it  will  be  the  turn  of  the 
White  Horsemen,  who  have  been  waiting  for  the  great 
war  ever  since  they  chased  the  red-haired  strangers  from 
the  country.  They'll  come  out  from  under  Aileach  when 
the  day  arrives,  ten  score  and  ten  of  them  with  silver 
shields  and  spears,  bright  as  stars  on  a  frosty  night. 
They'll  fight  the  foe  and  win  and  victory  will  come  to 


86  The  Rat-Pit 

Ireland.  These  are  the  words  of  the  great  saint,  Co- 
lumbkille." 

"Are  the  White  Horsemen  very  tall,  mother?"  asked 
Norah,  her  eyes  alight  with  enthusiastic  interest. 

"Tall  is  not  the  word !" 

"High  as  a  hill?" 

"Higher!" 

"AsSliabaTuagh?" 

"It's  as  nothing  compared  to  one  of  the  men  of  Maanan 
MacLir." 

"Then  I'll  marry  one  of  the  White  Horsemen,"  said 
Norah,  decision  in  her  clear  voice.  "I'll  live  in  a  castle, 
polish  his  lance  and  shield,  and —  Who  will  that  be  at 
the  door?" 

rv 

NORAH  paused.  Someone  was  moving  outside  as  if 
fumbling  for  the  latch ;  then  a  tall,  heavily-bearded 
man  pushed  the  door  of  the  cabin  inwards  and  entered, 
bringing  with  him  a  terrific  gust  of  wind  that  almost 
shook  the  house  to  its  foundations.  On  his  face  was  a 
scared  look,  and  his  clothes  were  dripping  wet,  although 
it  was  not  raining. 

"Was  it  himself?"  cried  the  old  woman,  alluding  to 
her  husband  and  speaking  to  the  man  who  entered.  It 
was  evident  from  the  tone  in  which  she  spoke  that  she 
anticipated  something  terrible. 

"It  was  himself,"  said  the  man  in  a  low,  hoarse  voice. 
"He's  coming  on  the  flat  of  two  oars.  God  bless  us !  But 
it  is  a  black  heart  that  the  sea  has." 

With  these  words  the  visitor  went  out  again,  and  the 
excited  voices  of  men  could  be  heard  floating  on  the 
wind. 

"It's  your  father,  Norah,"  said  the  old  woman.    "He 


The  Tragedy  87 

went  down  with  the  curragh,  I'm  thinking ;  down  through 
the  black  water.  Mother  of  God !  but  it's  the  sea  that  has 
the  black  heart !  There  they  are  coming  with  him.  Open 
the  door  wider,  Norah !" 

The  girl,  who  had  risen  from  her  seat,  pulled  the  door 
inwards  and  placed  a  stone  against  the  sill  to  keep  it  open. 
She  felt  as  if  a  thousand  pins  were  pricking  her  legs;  her 
head  was  heavy,  her  fingers  felt  enormous  and  when  they 
pressed  against  the  door  it  seemed  to  Norah  as  if  they  did 
not  belong  to  her  at  all.  Outside  it  was  very  dark,  the 
heavens  held  no  stars  and  it  looked  as  if  the  howling  gale 
had  whirled  them  away.  In  the  darkness  a  torch  swayed 
in  the  wind,  and  behind  the  torch  black  forms  of  men 
and  white,  pallid  faces  could  be  discerned.  Norah's  mind 
turned  to  the  stories  which  her  mother  had  been  telling 
her.  She  knew  it  was  wrong  to  think  of  them  at  that 
moment  but  she  felt  an  inordinate  desire  to  laugh  at 
something;  what  she  wanted  to  laugh  at  she  did  not 
know ;  why  she  wanted  to  laugh  she  could  not  fathom. 

"Are  they  coming,  Norah  ?"  asked  the  old  woman,  ris- 
ing from  her  seat  and  hobbling  with  difficulty  towards 
the  door.  "Mother  of  Christ!  but  the  hand  of  God  is 
heavy  on  me  this  night  of  nights !  Children  of  my  own 
and  man  of  my  own,  all,  all  going  away  from  me!  I'll 
see  the  last  of  them  go  down  into  the  grave  before  me, 
for  with  my  hard  cough  and  the  long  sickness  I'll  outlive 
them  all :  that  is  the  will  of  God.  Ten  sons  and  daugh- 
ters of  my  body ;  every  one  of  them  gone,  and  one  away 
in  black  foreign  parts.  .  .  .  Are  they  coming,  Norah  ?" 

The  woman  reached  the  door  and  leant  against  the 
jamb  for  support.  The  torch  was  flaring  outside  and 
very  near. 

"Watch  that  you  don't  set  the  thatch  on  fire !"  a  voice 
cried. 

Two  men  entered  the  house,  the  water  streaming  from 


88  The  Rat-Pit 

their  clothes  and  each  holding  a  burdened  oar  in  his 
hands.  Across  the  oars  a  sail  was  bound  tightly,  and 
cold  in  death  on  the  sail  lay  James  Ryan,  his  grey  beard 
sticking  out  stiffly,  his  eyes  open,  his  head  shaking  from 
side  to  side,  his  bare  feet  blue  with  the  cold.  The  oars, 
which  brushed  sharply  against  the  old  woman  in  pass- 
ing, were  laid  on  the  floor  and  the  dead  man  was  placed 
on  the  bed. 

"I'm  sweatin'  like  a  pig!"  said  one  of  the  bearers,  and 
he  rubbed  his  wrinkled  brow  violently  with  the  back  of 
his  hand. 

"Watch  the  thatch!"  someone  outside  shouted.  The 
torch  was  extinguished  and  a  crowd  of  men  entered  the 
cabin.  An  old  red-haired  fisherman  lifted  the  oars;  the 
sail  was  rolled  into  a  bundle  and  carried  out  again.  Pools 
of  water  formed  on  the  floor  and  tracks  of  wet  feet 
showed  all  over  it.  The  old  woman  hobbled  back  to  her 
bed  and  gazed  long  and  earnestly  at  her  husband ;  some  of 
the  men  took  off  their  hats;  one  was  smoking,  another 
dressed  a  bleeding  foot  and  told  how  he  hit  it  against  a 
sharp  rock  when  carrying  the  dead  man  up  from  the  sea ; 
several  of  the  neighbouring  women  were  already  in  the 
house.  Maire  a  Crick  was  on  her  knees  by  the  bedside. 

"I  am  used  to  it  now,"  said  the  old  woman,  as  she 
sorted  the  blankets  on  the  bed  with  her  withered  hands. 
"Ten  sons  and  daughters,  and  another  away  and  maybe 
never  hearing  from  him  again.  .  .  .  Himself  said  when 
he  was  going  out  that  the  morrow  never  comes." 

She  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  ran  her  fingers 
over  the  wet  clothes  of  her  husband,  opened  his  vest,  put 
her  hand  on  his  heart,  shook  her  head  sadly  and  but- 
toned the  coat  again. 

"Just  when  he  was  putting  out  the  wind  caught  him, 
and  he  dropped  like  a  stone  over  the  side  of  the  cur- 
ragh,"  the  red-haired  fisherman  was  saying.  "But  the 


The  Tragedy  89 

boat  was  no  good  anyway.  It  is  one  of  the  Congested 
Districts  Board's  boats  that  he  should  have." 

"Where  would  he  get  the  money  to  buy  one?"  asked 
Maire  a  Crick,  turning  round  from  the  prayer  which  she 
was  saying  for  the  dead  man. 

"The  money  can  be  paid  in  instalments,"  answered  the 
red  fisherman.  He  spoke  the  Gaelic,  as  nearly  every- 
body in  Presses  did,  but  the  words  "instalments"  and 
"Congested  Districts  Board"  were  said  in  English.  "Ten 
pounds  the  new  boats  cost,  and  there  is  five  years  allowed 
for  paying  the  money." 

"The  Congested  Districts  Board  is  going  to  be  a  great 
help,"  someone  remarked. 

"Is  the  curragh  safe?"  asked  Mary  Ryan,  turning 
round.  She  was  still  sitting  beside  the  bed,  turning  over 
the  clothes  with  lean,  shaky  fingers. 

"It  is  at  the  bottom,"  said  a  neighbour,  Eamon  Do- 
herty  by  name.  "It  was  rotten  anyhow,  and  it  hadn't 
been  in  wet  water  for  close  on  two  years.  .  .  .  Now,  I 
wonder  what  made  Shemus  go  out  on  it?" 

"Nothing  atall,  atall  left,"  said  the  old  woman  in  a 
feeble  voice.  "If  I  only  had  the  curragh  even.  .  .  .  And 
himself  dead  after  all  the  times  that  the  sea  has  bent 
under  him!  Never  to  see  him  again,  never!  Isn't  it 
hard  to  think  that  a  thing  like  that  could  be  ?" 

Whereupon,  saying  this  she  began  to  cry,  at  first 
quietly,  but  afterwards,  as  if  getting  warmed  to  the  task, 
more  loudly,  until  her  sobs  could  be  heard  a  hundred 
yards  away  from  the  house. 

"If  I  only  had  the  curragh  left !"  she  repeated  time  and 
again. 

Norah  approached  the  bed  timidly.  She  had  been 
weeping  silently  by  the  door  ever  since  the  corpse  had 
been  carried  in.  Death  was  here  in  the  house ;  it  had  al- 
ready taken  possession  of  her  father.  And  it  was  with 


90  The  Rat-Pit 

her  also.  Not  to-night  nor  to-morrow,  but  at  the  end  of 
forty  years  or  of  fifty,  and  was  it  not  all  the  same  ?  And 
what  was  this  death?  She  did  not  know;  she  only 
thought  it  cruel  and  strange.  Her  own  helplessness  in 
face  of  such  a  crisis  almost  overpowered  her.  For  death 
there  was  no  help,  from  it  there  was  no  escape.  It  was 
all  powerful  and  terrible.  To-morrow  and  to-morrow 
might  come  and  go,  but  her  father  would  lie  still  and  un- 
heeding. He  would  not  return,  he  could  not  return.  This 
fact  hammered  at  her  mind,  and  the  cruelty  of  her  own 
thoughts  tortured  her.  She  tried  to  think  of  something 
apart  from  the  tragedy,  but  ever  her  mind  reverted  to  the 
one  and  same  dreadful  subject.  Of  a  great  fact  she  was 
certain;  one  that  would  never  be  contradicted.  Her  fa- 
ther was  dead ;  thousands  of  years  might  pass  and  one 
truth  would  still  remain  unquestioned.  Her  father  was 
dead.  "To  think  of  it !"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "Dead 
for  ever!" 

She  went  down  on  her  knees  by  the  bedside  but  could 
not  pray.  God  was  cruel ;  He  had  no  mercy.  She  sobbed 
no  longer,  but  with  wide,  tearless  eyes  she  gazed  at  the 
face  of  her  father.  It  had  now  become  yellow,  the  lips 
blue,  the  nose  was  pinched  and  the  eyes  sunken.  The 
water  from  his  clothes  was  dripping  underneath  the  bed, 
and  she  could  hear  the  drip-drip  of  it  falling  on  the  floor. 

Everything  in  the  house  had  suddenly  taken  on  a  dif- 
ferent aspect.  The  bed  appeared  strange  to  her;  so  did 
the  fire,  the  low  droning  voices  of  the  neighbours,  and 
the  play  of  light  and  shadow  on  the  walls.  The  old  cat 
sitting  on  top  of  the  dresser,  gazing  down  at  her,  had  a 
curious  look  in  its  wide-open  eyes ;  the  animal  seemed  to 
have  changed  in  some  queer  way.  Outside  the  wind  was 
beating  against  the  house  and  wailing  over  the  chimney. 
Never  in  her  life  before  had  she  heard  such  a  melan- 
choly sob  in  the  wind. 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE    WAKE 


SEVERAL  more  neighbours,  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren, were  now  coming  in.  With  eyes  fixed 
straight  ahead  they  approached  the  corpse,  went 
down  on  their  knees  on  the  wet  floor  by  the  bedside  and 
said  their  prayers,  crossing  themselves  many  times. 
Those  who  carried  the  dead  body  up  from  the  sea  drew 
near  to  the  fire  and  dried  their  sodden  garments  in  the 
midst  of  a  cloud  of  vapour  that  almost  hid  them  from 
view.  Eamon  Doherty  remarked  that  Ireland  would 
have  Home  Rule  presently,  and  a  loud  discussion  mingled 
with  many  jokes  was  soon  in  progress. 

"The  Irish  will  never  agree,"  said  old  Oiney  Dinchy,  a 
one-eyed  ancient  who  had  just  risen  from  his  knees  by 
the  bedside.  "That  is  the  worst  of  the  Irish ;  they  never 
agree.  Look  at  them  now  in  the  House  of  Commons; 
one  member  is  always  fighting  against  another  member, 
and  it  was  ever  the  same,  for  contrairiness  is  in  their 
blood  to  the  very  last  drop  of  it." 

"There  is  always  bound  to  be  two  parties,"  said  Mas- 
ter Diver  with  dogmatic  assurance.  "In  England  and 
America  there  are  always  two  parties,  sometimes  more." 

"They'll  never  get  on,  then,"  said  Eamon  Doherty. 
"There  are  no  two  parties  in  the  holy  Church,  and  that's 
why  it  gets  on  so  well." 


92  The  Rat-Pit 

The  door  opened  and  Sheila  Carrol,  the  beansho,  en- 
tered, her  child,  now  a  chubby  little  boy  of  three,  toddling 
at  her  heels.  Without  looking  round  she  went  down  on 
her  knees  by  the  bedside,  and  a  couple  of  women  who 
were  praying  crossed  themselves  and  rose  hurriedly.  A 
few  of  the  younger  men  winked  knowingly  and  turned 
their  thumbs  towards  the  new-comer.  Old  Mary  Ryan 
muttered  something  under  her  breath  and  turned  a  look 
of  severe  disapproval  on  the  kneeling  woman,  then  on 
the  little  boy  who  had  run  forward  to  the  fire,  where  he 
was  holding  out  his  hands  to  the  blaze. 

"Who'll  be  the  ones  that  will  go  to  Greenanore  and  get 
tea,  bread,  snuff,  and  tobacco  for  the  wake  ?"  asked  Mary 
Ryan. 

"I'll  go  if  Eamon  Doherty  comes  along  with  me,"  said 
old  Oiney  Dinchy,  getting  to  his  feet  and  putting  a  live 
peat  to  the  bowl  of  his  pipe. 

"The  two  of  you  always  get  drunk  if  you  go  to  Greena- 
nore together,"  said  the  old  woman.  "I'd  as  soon  send 

the "  she  pointed  with  her  thumb  over  her  shoulder 

at  the  beansho  but  did  not  mention  her  name,  "to  Greena- 
nore, as  send  you  two." 

"It  is  not  everyone  that  would  be  treated  that  way  if 
they  offered  to  help  a  person,"  Eamon  Doherty  remarked 
in  a  loud  voice  to  Oiney  Dinchy. 

"I'll  go  if  Willie  the  Duck  comes  with  me,"  said  a  long, 
lank,  shaggy  youth,  rising  from  one  corner  of  the  room 
and  stretching  his  arms. 

"You're  the  man  for  the  job,  Micky's  Jim,"  answered 
Mary  Ryan,  coming  from  the  bedside  and  tottering 
through  the  press  of  neighbours  to  the  dresser  where  the 
Delft  tea-pot  stood.  She  raised  the  lid,  dipped  her  hand 
into  the  tea-pot  and  drew  out  a  fistful  of  money. 

"Four  shillings  for  tea,"  she  began  to  calculate ;  "eight- 
pence  for  sugar;  five  shillings  for  loaves  of  bread;  four 


The  Wake  93 

shillings  and  sixpence  for  tobacco,  and  sixpence  for  snuff, 
and —  How  much  potheen  did  you  get  for  your  father's 
wake,  Eamon  Doherty?" 

"Four  gallons  and  no  less,"  Eamon  answered  in  a  surly 
tone  of  voice. 

"Two  gallons  of  potheen,  Micky's  Jim,  and  get  it  as 
cheap  as  you  can,"  said  the  old  woman,  turning  to  the 
long-limbed  youth.  "From  what  I  hear  Martin  Eveleen 
sells  good  potheen.  Get  it  from  him,  for  it  was  Martin, 
I  wish  him  luck!  that  helped  Norah  when  she  took  the 
fargortha  on  the  road  to  Greenanore  three  winters 
agone." 

The  money  was  handed  to  Micky's  Jim,  and  he  left  the 
house  followed  by  Willie  the  Duck,  a  small  man,  dark 
and  swarthy,  with  a  hump  on  his  left  shoulder,  and  a 
voice,  when  he  spoke,  that  reminded  one  of  the  quacking 
of  ducks. 

"Thirty-four  shillings  in  all,"  mumbled  Mary  Ryan  as 
she  took  her  way  back  to  the  fireside.  "It  costs  a  lot  to 
bury  a  body,  and  there  will  never  be  left  one  at  all  to 
bury  me,  never  a  one  at  all.  If  only  the  curragh  was  left 
me  it  would  be  something." 

Meanwhile  Norah  had  slipped  out,  and  went  from 
house  to  house  borrowing  candlesticks  ( Meenalicknalore 
townland  consisted  of  thirty  families  and  there  were  only 
two  candlesticks  amongst  them),  baskets  of  peat,  holy 
water,  a  lamp,  extra  chairs,  stools,  and  many  other  things 
required  for  the  wake. 


II 

AT  midnight  the  cabin  was  cleared  of  everybody  but 
the  washers  of  the  dead,  Eamon  Doherty  and  Mas- 
ter Diver.    Oiney  Dinchy  was  very  angry  because  Mary 


94  The  Rat-Pit 

Ryan  did  not  ask  him  to  give  a  hand  at  the  washing  of 
her  husband. 

"It  wasn't  as  if  Shemus  and  me  weren't  good  friends," 
said  Oiney.  "And  besides,  I  have  washed  more  dead  men 
in  a  year  of  my  life  than  all  washed  by  Eamon  and  Mas- 
ter Diver  put  together.  .  .  .  And  to  think  that  I  wasn't 
allowed  to  help  at  the  washin'  to-night !" 

The  men  and  women  who  had  left  the  cabin  went  down 
on  their  knees  at  the  doorstep  and  recited  the  Rosary. 
The  night  being  very  dark  the  young  men  drew  near  the 
girls  and  tickled  them  on  the  bare  feet  while  they  prayed. 
When  admittance  was  again  possible  the  dead  man  lay 
in-  the  bed,  his  body  covered  with  a  white  sheet  and  a 
large  black  crucifix  resting  on  his  breast.  His  clothes 
were  already  burned  in  the  fire,  it  being  a  common  cus- 
tom in  Frosses  to  consign  the  clothes  of  the  dead  to  the 
flames  on  the  first  night  of  the  wake. 

About  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  provisions  came 
from  Greenanore.  The  house  was  now  crowded,  and  sev- 
eral games  such  as  "The  Priest  of  the  Parish,"  "Catch 
the  Ten,"  and  "Put  your  fingers  in  the  Crow's  Nest"  were 
in  progress.  An  old  man  who  sat  in  the  corner  was  tell- 
ing a  story  of  the  famine,  and  a  few  mischievous  boys 
were  amusing  themselves  by  throwing  pieces  of  peat  at 
his  hat. 

While  tea  was  being  made,  the  rosary  was  again 
started.  Micky's  Jim,  a  trifle  the  worse  for  liquor,  went 
down  on  his  knees  on  a  chair  and  gave  out  the  prayers. 
The  mischievous  boys  turned  their  attentions  from  the 
old  man  to  Jim,  who  was  presently  bombarded  by  a  fire 
of  turf.  One  went  past  his  ears ;  one  hit  him  on  the  back, 
another  on  the  head,  a  third  on  the  brow.  Jim  got  angry. 

"Pray  away  yourselves  and  be  damned  to  you!"  he 
roared  at  the  kneeling  house  and,  jumping  off  the  chair, 
he  sat  down  in  a  corner  from  which  he  had  a  view  of  the 


The  Wake  95 

whole  party.  Prayers  came  to  an  abrupt  conclusion ;  the 
chair  was  taken  by  the  beansho,  who  placed  her  child  be- 
tween its  legs,  and  the  little  boy,  who  had  shown  a  won- 
derful propensity  for  running  to  the  bedside  and  pulling 
the  corpse  by  the  beard,  was  held  a  fast  prisoner.  Four 
or  five  women  moved  about  hurriedly  preparing  tea; 
whisky  was  served  without  skimp  or  stint,  but  pipes  were 
found  to  be  scarce ;  one  had  to  do  for  three  persons,  each 
pulling  at  it  in  turn. 

The  old  man  in  the  corner  took  up  the  famine  story  at 
a  point  where  the  prayers  had  interrupted  the  recital.  It 
told  of  a  corpse  that  rose  from  the  bed  of  death,  sat 
down  at  the  table,  lifted  a  bowl  of  tea,  drank  it  and  went 
back  to  bed  again.  "And  the  man  was  dead  all  the  time," 
said  the  story-teller. 

Willie  the  Duck,  speaking  in  a  quavering  voice,  began 
to  ask  riddles :  "What  bears  but  never  blossoms  ?"  he 
enquired. 

"The  hangman's  rope,"  was  the  answer. 

"What  tree  never  comes  to  fruit  ?"  he  asked. 

"The  gallows-tree,"  was  the  answer. 

"This  is  the  best  guess  of  the  night,"  said  Willie,  taking 
a  pinch  of  snuff  and  sneezing  violently.  "No  one  will  be 
able  to  answer  it.  ...  In  the  morning  four  legs ;  at  noon 
two  legs ;  in  the  evening  three  legs  and  at  night  four  legs ; 
and  what  would  that  be?" 

"It's  a  man,"  said  Eamon  Doherty,  looking  round  with 
a  triumphant  glance.  "In  his  young  days  a  man  walks  on 
his  hands  and  knees,  when  he  grows  up  he  walks  on  two 
legs ;  when  he  gets  older  he  walks  on  three  legs,  two  and 
a  stick ;  and  if  he  lives  long  enough  he'll  walk  on 
crutches,  God  be  good  to  us !  and  that's  four  legs !" 

"You're  a  man  with  a  head,  Eamon,"  said  Willie  the 
Duck.  "And  how  did  you  guess  it  atall  ?" 

"I  heard  the  same  guess  often  and  I  knew  the  answer 


96  The  Rat-Pit 

every  time,"  Eamon  replied,  and  a  smile  of  satisfaction 
lit  up  his  face. 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  most  of  the  men 
and  a  few  of  the  ancient  females  were  drunk.  Mary 
Ryan  had  fallen  asleep  by  the  fire,  her  head  touching  the 
white  ashes  of  her  husband's  clothes.  Norah  placed  a 
pillow  under  her  mother's  head  and  took  up  a  seat  near 
her,  gazing  in  turn  at  the  silent  figure  which  lay  in  the 
bed  and  the  blue  flames  chasing  one  another  up  the  black 
chimney. 

Two  lamps,  one  at  each  end  of  the  house,  spluttered 
dismally;  the  wind  outside  battered  loudly  against  the 
door  and  wailed  over  the  chimney.  Oiney  Dinchy  was 
asleep  and  snoring  loudly,  and  two  youngsters  blackened 
his  face  with  soot.  The  beansho  slept,  and  her  child, 
long  since  released  from  the  prison  of  the  chair,  was 
blubbering  fitfully.  On  the  damp  earth  of  the  mid-floor 
a  well-made  young  woman  slumbered,  the  naked  calves 
of  her  finely  formed  legs  showing.  Micky's  Jim  slapped 
the  legs  with  his  hand;  the  girl  awoke,  put  down  her 
dress  until  it  covered  her  toes,  made  a  face  at  the  tor- 
mentor and  went  to  sleep  again.  Beside  Norah,  old  Mas- 
ter Diver,  now  remarkably  rotund,  was  asleep,  his  bald 
head  hanging  to  one  side  and  a  spittle  slobbering  from 
his  lips. 

Norah  looked  round  at  the  sleepers,  saw  the  stiff  legs 
stretched  on  the  floor,  the  long,  awkward  arms  hanging 
loosely  over  the  backs  of  the  chairs,  the  bowls  and  the 
upturned  whisky  glasses  on  the  table;  heard  the  loud 
snoring,  the  rustle  of  petticoats  as  a  woman  changed  her 
position  on  a  stool,  the  crackle  of  falling  peat  on  the 
hearth,  the  whimpering  of  the  beansho's  child,  and  the 
sound  made  by  the  lips  of  a  sucking  babe  pulling  at  its 
mother's  breast. 

The  strange  fear,  that  which  had  taken  possession  of 


The  Wake  97 

her  three  years  before  on  the  rocks  of  Dooey,  seized  her 
again.  To  her  all  things  seemed  to  lack  finish  as  they 
lacked  design.  A  vague  sense  of  repulsion  overcame  the 
girl  as  she  gazed  at  the  sleepers  huddled  on  form  and 
floor.  She  shuddered  as  if  in  a  fever  and  approached  the 
bed ;  there  the  awful  stillness  of  the  dead  fascinated  her. 
She  was  looking  at  the  dead,  but  somehow  Death  had 
now  lost  its  terror :  it  was  the  living  who  caused  her  fear. 
She  knelt  down  and  prayed. 


CHAPTER    X 

COFFIN    AND   COIN 


FOR  two  days  and  nights  the  neighbours  came  in, 
prayed  by  the  bedside,  drank  bowls  of  tea, 
smoked  long  white  clay  pipes  and  departed,  only 
to  return  later  and  renew  the  same  performance.  A 
coffin  and  coffin-bearer,  the  latter  shaped  like  a  ladder, 
the  sides  of  which  were  cushioned  to  ease  the  shoulders 
of  the  men  who  carried  it,  were  procured.  On  the  rungs 
of  the  coffin-bearer  a  number  of  notches,  three  hundred 
and  fifty-two  in  all,  told  of  the  bodies  carried  on  it  to  the 
grave.  The  bearer  had  been  in  service  for  many  years 
and  had  been  used  by  most  of  the  families  in  Frosses. 
The  man  who  made  it  was  long  dead;  number  seventy- 
seven  represented  his  notch  on  the  rungs. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day  Oiney  Dinchy  and 
Micky's  Jim  lifted  the  dead  man  from  the  bed  and  placed 
him  in  the  coffin.  Before  the  lid  was  screwed  down, 
Mary  Ryan  knelt  over  the  coffin,  gripping  the  side  near 
her  with  thin,  long  fingers,  which  showed  white  at  the 
joints,  and  kissing  her  husband  she  burst  into  a  loud  out- 
cry of  grief.  Norah,  more  reserved  in  her  sorrow,  knelt 
on  the  floor,  said  a  short  prayer  and  then  kissed  the  face 
of  the  corpse  as  her  mother  had  done. 

The  lid  was  fastened,  but  here  an  interruption  oc- 
curred. The  wife  wanted  to  look  at  her  husband  for 
"just  one  other  minute."  With  a  gesture  of  impatience 

98 


Coffin  and  Coin  99 

old  Oiney  Dinchy,  who  was  discussing  the  best  means  of 
catching  flukes  and  tying  the  coffin,  lifted  the  lid  again 
and  stood  silently  by,  his  hat  drawn  down  well  over  his 
eyes.  Mary  Ryan  gave  vent  to  another  outburst  of  grief ; 
the  coffin  was  again  closed  and  lifted  on  the  wooden 
bearer.  An  idle  child  was  busily  engaged  in  counting 
the  notches. 

"Seventy-seven;  that's  for  the  man  who  made  it," 
someone  was  saying. 

"Listen,  Micky's  Jim,"  whispered  Mary  Ryan  as  the 
youth  passed  her,  going  towards  the  door  with  a  basket 
of  pipes  and  tobacco. 

"Well,  Mary,  what  is  it?"  Jim  asked. 

"Was  this  a  good  year  beyond  the  water  ?" 

Jim  went  yearly  to  the  potato-digging  in  Scotland, 
taking  with  him  a  squad  of  men  and  women  from  his  own 
country,  and  over  these  he  was  master  while  they  were 
at  work. 

"It  was  not  so  very  bad,"  said  Jim  cautiously.  He 
was  afraid  that  the  old  woman  might  ask  the  loan  of 
money  from  him. 

"Next  year  I  have  a  mind  to  send  Norah." 

"And  not  to  make  a  nun  of  her,  after  all?" 

Norah  was  piling  peat  on  the  fire,  lifting  them  from  the 
floor  and  dropping  them  into  the  flames.  As  she  bent 
down  Jim  noticed  every  movement  of  her  body  and  paid 
very  little  attention  to  the  words  of  the  old  woman. 
Norah,  having  finished  her  task,  stood  upright;  Jim 
waited  eagerly  for  a  repetition  of  her  former  movement, 
but  seeing  that  she  was  weeping  he  turned  his  attention 
to  the  task  of  getting  the  coffin  through  the  doorway. 

Norah  would  be  a  light  girl  for  heavy  work  on  the 
Scottish  farms,  Jim  thought,  as  he  stooped  down  and 
lifted  a  rung  of  the  bearer.  Could  he  take  her  with  him? 
That  was  a  ticklish  question.  She  was  clever  with  the 


ioo  The  Rat-Pit 

needles,  he  knew,  but  she  had  not  done  any  heavy  manual 
work  for  the  last  two  years.  Learning  lessons  was  to  Jim 
an  idle  task.  But  the  movement  of  her  body,  and  espe- 
cially of  her  legs  when  bending  over  the  fire,  appealed 
to  Jim.  The  grace  of  her  carriage,  the  poise  of  her  head, 
the  soft  hair  that  fell  over  her  shoulders,  all  these  found 
favour  in  the  eyes  of  the  healthy  young  man. 

"My  cripes,  I'll  take  her  with  me  next  year!"  he  said 
under  his  breath.  He  spoke  in  English  and  had  learned 
many  strange  oaths  abroad. 


II 

OUTSIDE  a  large  crowd  of  people  were  waiting;  the 
women  dressed  in  red  flannel  petticoats  and  wool- 
len shawls,  the  men  in  white  wrappers  and  corduroy 
trousers.  The  coffin  bearer  was  raised  on  high ;  four  men 
placed  their  shoulders  under  it ;  a  bottle  of  holy  water  was 
sprinkled  over  bearers  and  burden  indiscriminately;  the 
men  and  women  crossed  themselves  many  times,  and  the 
mournful  procession  started. 

Mary  Ryan  stood  at  the  door  and  watched  it  wending 
its  way  across  the  dreary,  uneven  fields,  past  the  Three 
Rocks,  now  getting  lost  in  some  hollow,  again  rising  to 
the  shoulders  of  a  hillock,  the  coffin  swaying  unevenly 
on  the  shoulders  of  the  bearers,  the  red  petticoats  of  the 
women  in  the  rear  shaking  in  the  breeze.  The  widow, 
almost  too  weak  to  move,  was  with  difficulty  restrained 
from  going  to  the  churchyard.  Norah,  having  arranged 
the  hassock  in  the  corner  for  her  mother,  had  followed 
the  procession,  and  now  the  old  woman  thought  that  she 
could  detect  her  child  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  follow- 
ing in  the  rear  of  the  party.  Micky's  Jim,  who  had  not 
gone  away  yet,  was  engaged  in  sorting  a  rope  on  the 


Coffin  and  Coin  101 

thatch  which  had  been  blown  askew  by  the  wind  of  the 
previous  nights. 

"I'll  overtake  the  funeral,  Mary,"  he  said  when  he 
completed  the  work.  "I  was  just  making  the  thatch 
strong  against  the  breeze  and  I  have  tied  a  broken  rope." 

"Mother  of  God  be  good  to  you,  Jim,  but  it  is  yourself 
that  has  the  kindly  heart!"  said  Mary  in  a  tremulous 
whisper.  "Could  you  take  Norah  with  you  beyond  the 
water  next  year?" 

Jim  called  to  mind  the  movements  of  the  girl's  body 
when  she  stooped  to  lift  peat  for  the  fire,  and  the  re- 
membrance filled  him  with  pleasure.  "When  next  sum- 
mer comes  round,  I'll  see,  Mary  Ryan,"  he  answered. 
"If  there  is  a  place  to  spare  in  the  squad  I'll  let  you  know 
and  your  Norah  will  have  the  very  first  chance  of  it." 

"Mother  of  God  bless  you,  Jim,  for  the  kindness  is  in 
you !"  said  the  old  woman.  "It  is  me  that  is  the  lone  body 
this  very  minute,  with  never  a  penny  in  my  house  and  not 
even  the  old  curragh  left  to  me  to  make  a  penny  by." 

"Well,  I'm  off,  Mary,"  said  Jim.  "The  coffin  is  going 
out  of  sight  and  they'll  be  needing  new  blood  under  it." 

He  hurried  across  the  fields,  his  long  legs  covering  an 
enormous  spread  of  earth  at  every  stride.  Over  the  brae 
he  hurried,  and  at  the  turn  of  the  road  halted  for  a  mo- 
ment and  looked  back  at  Mary  Ryan's  cabin.  The  woman 
still  stood  at  the  door,  one  hand  shading  her  eyes,  looking 
towards  the  Presses  churchyard,  which  lay  more  than 
three  miles  away.  "Thinkin'  that  she  could  get  anything 
for  an  old  curragh !"  he  muttered  contemptuously,  as  he 
resumed  his  stride.  "She's  an  old  fool ;  but  Norah !  Ah ! 
she's  a  soncy  lass,  and  she  was  good  to  look  at  when 
making  that  fire !" 


102  The  Rat-Pit 


in 

THE  graveyard,  surrounded  by  a  stone  wall,  broken 
down  in  several  places,  served  as  a  grazing  plot  for 
bullocks,  donkeys,  and  sheep,  as  well  as  for  the  burial 
place  of  the  dead.  A  long  walk,  lined  with  stunted  hazel 
bushes,  ran  half-way  through  the  yard,  and  at  the  end  a 
low  stone  vault,  hardly  higher  than  a  man's  head,  stood 
under  the  shadow  of  an  overhanging  sycamore. 

The  funeral  procession  was  delayed  on  the  journey, 
and  Father  Devaney,  round-faced  and  red-cheeked, 
stamped  up  and  down  while  waiting  its  arrival.  He  had 
come  all  the  way  from  Greenanore  and  was  in  a  hurry 
to  get  back  again.  The  morning  was  cold  and  caused  him 
to  shiver  a  little,  and  when  he  shivered  he  clapped  his 
hands  vigorously,  the  palm  of  one  against  the  back  of 
the  other. 

His  large  mansion,  complete  now  and  habitable,  had 
not  been  fully  paid  for  yet,  and  most  of  his  parishioners 
were  a  pound  or  two  in  arrears ;  when  this  money  came 
to  hand  matters  would  be  much  better.  Old  Devaney  had 
developed  a  particularly  fine  taste  in  wine  and  cigars  and 
found  these  very  expensive ;  and  at  present  he  called  to 
mind  how  James  Ryan  was  two  pounds  in  arrears  with 
the  mansion  tax.  The  old  priest  knew  that  this  money 
would  never  come  to  hand ;  the  widow  was  ill,  no  word 
had  been  heard  of  Fergus  for  years,  and  Norah  Ryan  was 
a  light  slip  of  a  girl  who  would  probably  never  earn  a 
penny.  Devaney  knew  all  the  affairs  of  his  flock,  and  he 
stamped  up  and  down  the  graveyard,  a  little  angry  with 
the  dead  man  who,  being  so  long  in  coming  to  his  last 
home,  had  kept  him  waiting  for  thirty  minutes. 

The  funeral  came  in  sight,  creeping  up  over  the  brow 
of  the  hill  that  rose  near  at  hand,  the  bearers  straining 


Coffin  and  Coin  103 

under  their  burden  as  they  hurried  across  the  uneven 
ground,  with  the  coffin  rising  and  falling  on  their  shoul- 
ders like  a  bark  in  a  storm  at  sea.  The  gate  of  the 
graveyard  was  already  open ;  the  procession  filed  through, 
Father  Devaney  stepping  out  in  front,  his  surplice 
streaming  in  the  wind.  The  good  man  thought  of  the  warm 
dinner  waiting  for  him  at  home,  and  being  in  a  hurry 
to  get  done  with  the  burial  service  he  walked  so  quickly 
that  the  bearers  could  hardly  keep  up  with  him.  On  the 
floor  of  the  little  vault  in  the  centre  of  the  graveyard  the 
coffin  was  set  down  and  the  basket  of  snuff,  pipes,  and 
tobacco  was  handed  round.  All  the  men  took  pipes,  filled 
them  with  rank  plug  and  lit  them;  the  older  women  lit 
pipes  also,  and  everybody,  with  the  exception  of  the  priest 
and  Norah  Ryan,  took  snuff. 

"Hurry  up!"  said  Father  Devaney.  "Ye  can  smoke 
after  ye  do  yer  duty.  It  would  be  well  if  ye  were  puttin' 
yer  hands  in  yer  pockets  now  and  gettin'  yer  offerin's 
ready." 

Immediately  a  stream  of  silver  descended  on  the  coffin. 
All  the  mourners  paid  rapidly,  but  in  turn,  and  the  priest 
called  out  their  names  as  they  paid.  A  sum  of  ten  pounds 
seventeen  shillings  was  collected,  and  this  the  priest  care- 
fully wrapped  up  in  a  woollen  muffler  and  put  into  his 
pocket. 

"Now  hurry  up,  boys,  and  get  a  move  on  ye ;  and  open 
the  grave !"  he  shouted,  making  no  effort  to  hide  his  im- 
patience now  that  the  money  was  safely  in  his  keeping. 
He  felt  full  of  the  importance  of  a  man  who  knows  that 
everybody  around  him  trembles  under  his  eyes.  Three  or 
four  young  fellows  were  digging  the  grave  and  joking 
loudly  as  they  worked ;  a  crowd  of  men  stood  round  them, 
puffing  white  clouds  of  smoke  up  into  the  air.  Many  of 
the  women  were  kneeling  beside  graves  that  held  all  that 
remained  of  one  or  another  near  and  dear  to  them. 


104  The  Rat-Pit 

Norah  Ryan  stood  alone  with  the  priest,  her  dark  shawl 
drawn  over  her  white  forehead,  and  a  few  stray  tresses, 
that  had  fallen  over  her  face,  shaking  in  the  breeze. 

"It  is  a  black  day  this  for  you,  Norah,  a  black  day," 
said  the  priest,  speaking  in  Gaelic.  Two  tears  coursed 
down  the  girl's  cheeks,  and  she  fixed  a  pair  of  sorrowful 
grey  eyes  on  the  man  when  he  spoke. 

"Don't  cry,  girsha  beag  (little  girl),"  said  the  priest. 
"It  is  all  for  the  best,  all  for  the  best,  because  it  is  the  will 
of  God." 

He  looked  sharply  at  the  girl,  who,  feeling  uncomforta- 
ble in  his  presence,  longed  to  be  away  from  the  man's 
side.  She  wondered  why  she  had  not  gone  off  to  the 
other  end  of  the  graveyard  with  Sheila  Carrol,  whom  she 
could  now  see  kneeling  before  a  black  wooden  cross  that 
was  fast  falling  into  decay.  But  it  would  be  wrong  to  go 
away  from  the  side  of  her  father's  coffin,  she  thought. 

"Any  word  from  Fergus  of  late  ?"  the  priest  was  ask- 
ing. 

"No;  not  the  smallest  word." 

That  Mary  Ryan  owed  him  two  pounds,  and  that  there 
was  very  little  possibility  of  ever  receiving  the  money, 
forcibly  occurred  to  the  priest  at  that  moment.  "Ye'll 
not  be  in  a  good  way  at  home  now?"  he  said  aloud. 

"There's  hardly  a  white  shilling  in  the  house,"  an- 
swered the  girl. 

"Is  that  the  way  of  it?"  exclaimed  the  priest,  then 
seemed  on  the  point  of  giving  expression  to  something 
more  forcible,  but  with  an  effort  he  restrained  himself. 
"Well,  it  cannot  be  helped,  I  suppose,  but  there  are  two 
pounds  owing  for  the  building  of  my  new  house." 


Coffin  and  Coin  105 

IV 

THE  grave  is  ready,"  said  Micky's  Jim,  approaching 
the  priest  and  saluting.  The  youth  was  perspiring 
profusely;  his  shirt  open  at  the  neck  exposed  his  hairy 
chest,  on  which  beads  of  sweat  were  glistening  brightly. 

"In  with  the  coffin  then,"  said  the  priest,  taking  a 
book  from  his  pocket  and  approaching  the  open  grave.  A 
pile  of  red  earth,  out  of  which  several  white  bones  pro- 
truded, lay  on  the  brink,  and  long  earthworms  crawled 
across  it.  The  coffin  was  lowered  into  the  grave  with  a 
rope.  Norah  wept  loudly;  old  Oiney  Dinchy  remarked 
that  the  bones  belonged  to  her  grandparents  whom  she 
did  not  remember. 

"Remember  man  that  thou  art  dust  and  unto  dust  thou 
shalt  return,"  the  priest  chanted  in  a  loud,  droning  voice. 
Norah,  kneeling  on  the  wet  ground,  her  head  bent  down 
over  her  bosom,  so  that  her  hair  hung  over  her  shoulders, 
saw  nothing  but  the  black  coffin  which  was  speedily  dis- 
appearing under  the  red  clay,  and  heard  nothing  but  the 
thud  of  the  earth  as  it  struck  the  coffin. 

The  priest  took  his  departure ;  the  grave  was  filled  up 
and  the  crowd  began  to  disperse. 

"Come  away  home  now,"  said  Sheila  Carrol  to  Norah, 
who  was  still  kneeling  on  the  wet  ground.  The  girl  rose 
without  a  word,  brushed  her  dress  with  a  woollen  hand- 
kerchief and  accompanied  the  beansho  from  the  church- 
yard. 

"Don't  cry,  Norah,"  said  Sheila,  observing  that  tears 
were  still  falling  down  the  cheeks  of  her  companion. 
"Everyone  must  die  and  go  away  just  the  same  as  if 
they  had  never  been  at  all,  for  that  is  the  will  of  God. 
How  is  yer  mother  this  morning?" 

"Much  the  same  as  she  was  always,"  said  Norah.  "She 


io6  The  Rat-Pit 

cannot  get  rid  of  her  cough,  and  she  has  shiverin'  fits 
of  late.  .  .  .  Hasn't  the  sea  the  black  heart?" 

"Black  enough,  indeed,  my  child,"  said  the  beansho. 
"Your  mother  will  feel  it  a  big  lot?" 

"Not  so  much,"  said  the  girl.  "She'll  soon  be  with 
him,  she's  thinkin'." 

"At  the  wake  I  heard  her  say  that  she  would  be  the  last 
of  the  family  to  die.  What  put  that  into  her  head?" 

"I  don't  know  what  put  it  into  her  head,  but  if  I  were 
to  die  on  the  wet  road  this  very  minute  I  wouldn't  care 
one  hack"  On  Norah's  face  there  was  a  look  of  infinite 
sadness,  and  the  pathos  of  her  words  cut  Sheila  to  the 
heart. 

"Don't  speak  like  that,  Norah  Ryan,"  she  exclaimed. 
"Death  is  black  and  bitter,  but  there  are  things  much 
worse  than  death,  things  far,  far  worse." 

They  had  now  reached  a  stile,  and  far  in  front  the  soft 
caishin  (path)  wound  on  by  rock  and  rath  across  the 
broad  expanse  of  moor.  Several  people^  walking  one 
after  another,  were  in  front ;  the  soft  ooze  was  squirting 
under  their  feet  and  splashing  against  their  ankles.  In 
the  midst  of  the  heather  a  young  bullock  lay  chewing 
the  cud,  and  looked  upon  the  passers-by  with  that  stupid, 
involved  look  peculiar  to  the  ox;  a  moor-cock,  agitated 
and  voluble,  rose  into  the  air  and  chattered  as  it  swept 
across  the  brown  of  the  moor. 

"I'm  goin'  to  leave  Ireland  come  Candlemas,"  said  the 
beansho,  pulling  her  feet  wearily  out  of  the  mire. 

"And  where  would  ye  be  goin'  to  then,  Sheila  Carrol  ?" 

"Beyont  the  water." 

"Mercy  be  on  us,  and  are  ye  goin'  surely  ?" 

"True  as  death,  I'm  goin',"  said  Sheila  Carrol  with  ris- 
ing voice.  "I'm  sick  of  this  place — not  the  place  itself  but 
the  people  that's  in  it,  them  with  their  bitin'  tongues  and 
cuttin'  talk,  them  that  won't  let  those  that  do  them  no 


Coffin  and  Coin  107 

harm  a-be.  Nothin'  bad  enough  that  they  wouldn't  put 
past  me,  the  same  Frosses  people.  For  me  it's  always  the 
hard  word  that  they  have;  even  the  priest  himself  when 
he  meets  me  on  the  high  road  crosses  himself  as  if  he  met 
the  red-hot  devil  out  of  hell.  But  did  he  refuse  my 
shillin'  to-day?  .  .  .  Even  at  the  wakes  the  very  people 
point  their  thumbs  at  me  when  I  go  down  on  my  own  two 
knees  to  say  a  prayer  for  the  dead.  .  .  .  But  what  am  I 
talkin'  about!  Why  should  I  be  tellin'  my  own  sorrows 
to  one  that  has  heavy  troubles  of  her  own  to  bear.  .  .  . 
I'm  goin'  beyont  the  water  come  next  Candlemas,  any- 
way, Norah  Ryan!" 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE  TRAIN  FROM   GREENANORE 


WHEN  one  is  leaving  home  every  familiar  object 
seems  to  take  on  a  different  aspect  and  be- 
comes almost  strange  and  foreign.  The 
streets,  houses,  and  landscape  which  you  have  gazed  on 
for  years  become  in  some  way  very  remote,  like  objects 
seen  in  a  dream,  but  under  this  guise  every  familiar 
landmark  becomes  dearer  than  ever  it  has  been  before. 
So  Norah  Ryan  felt  as  she  was  leaving  home  in  the  June 
of  1905  bound  for  the  potato  fields  of  Scotland. 

"Is  this  the  road  to  Greenanore,  the  road  that  our  feet 
took  when  goin'  to  the  town  for  the  stockin'  yarn  ?"  she 
asked  herself  several  times.  "It  is  changed  somehow;  it 
doesn't  seem  to  be  the  same  place,  but  for  all  that  I  like  it 
better  than  ever.  Why  this  is  I  do  not  know ;  I  seem  to 
be  in  a  dream  of  some  kind." 

Her  thoughts  were  confused  and  her  mind  ran  on  sev- 
eral things  at  the  same  time ;  her  mother's  words  at  leave- 
taking,  the  prayer  that  the  child  might  do  well,  the  quick 
words  of  tearless  farewell  spoken  at  the  doorstep;  and 
as  she  thought  of  these  things  she  wondered  why  her 
mother  did  not  weep  when  her  only  child  was  leaving  her. 

The  girl  was  now  walking  alone  to  the  village  of 
Greenanore.  There  she  would  meet  all  the  members  of 
the  party,  and  every  step  of  the  journey  brought  a  thou- 

108 


The  Train  from  Greenanore     109 

sand  bygone  memories  vividly  to  her  mind.  Fergus  she 
thought  of,  his  good-bye  at  the  cross-roads,  the  dog  whin- 
ing in  Ballybonar,  the  lowing  cow,  the  soft  song  of  the 
sea.  Would  she  ever  see  Fergus  again?  Where  had  he 
been  all  these  years  ?  Looking  into  the  distance  she  could 
see  the  mountains  that  hemmed  Glenmornan,  and  light 
clouds,  white  and  fleecy  as  Candlemas  sheep,  resting  on 
the  tops  of  them.  Further  down,  on  the  foothills,  the 
smoke  of  peat-fires  rose  into  the  air,  telling  of  the  turf- 
savers  who  laboured  on  the  brown  bogs  at  the  stacks  and 
rikkles.  Norah  thought  of  Dermod  Flynn;  indeed  she 
called  him  to  mind  daily  when  gazing  towards  the  hills  of 
Glenmornan,  recollecting  with  a  certain  feeling  of  pride 
the  boy's  demeanour  at  school  and  his  utter  indifference 
towards  personal  chastisement.  The  dreamy  eyes  of 
Dermod  and  his  manner  of  looking  through  the  school 
window  at  nothing  in  particular  fascinated  her;  and  the 
very  remembrance  of  the  youth  standing  beside  her 
facing  the  map  of  the  world  always  caused  a  pleasant 
thrill  to  run  through  her  body.  Now,  as  she  looked  at 
the  hills  of  Glenmornan,  the  incidents  of  the  morning  on 
which  she  went  to  pull  bog-bine  there  came  back  to  her 
mind,  and  she  wondered  if  Dermod  Flynn  thought  the 
hills  so  much  changed  on  the  day  when  he  was  setting 
out  for  the  rabble  of  Strabane. 

A  large  iron  bridge,  lately  built  by  the  Congested  Dis- 
tricts Board,  spanned  the  bay  between  Frosses  and 
Dooey.  Norah  crossed  over  this  to  the  other  side,  where 
the  black  rocks,  sharp  and  pointed,  spread  over  the  white 
sand.  It  was  here  that  the  women  slept  out  on  the  mid- 
winter night  many  years  ago;  and  now  Norah  had  only 
a  very  dim  remembrance  of  the  event. 

Up  to  the  rise  of  the  hill  she  hurried,  and  from  the 
townland  of  Ballybonar  looked  back  at  Frosses:  at  the 
little  strips  of  land  running  down  to  the  sea,  at  the  white 


no  The  Rat-Pit 

lime-washed  cabins  dotted  all  over  the  parish,  at  Frosses 
graveyard  and  the  lone  sycamore  tree  that  grew  there, 
showing  like  a  black  stain  against  the  sky.  Seeing  it,  she 
thought  of  her  father  and  said  an  "Our  Father"  and 
"Hail  Mary"  for  the  repose  of  his  soul.  Then  her  eye 
roved  over  Frosses  again. 

"Maybe  after  this  I'll  never  set  my  two  eyes  on  the 
place,"  she  said,  then  added,  "just  like  Fergus !" 

•The  thought  that  she  might  never  see  the  place  again 
filled  her  with  a  certain  feeling  of  importance  which  up 
to  now  had  been  altogether  foreign  to  her. 


II 


AT  the  station  she  met  the  other  members  of  the  po- 
tato squad,  fifteen  in  all.  Some  were  sitting  on 
their  boxes,  others  on  the  bundles  bound  in  cotton  hand- 
kerchiefs which  contained  all  their  clothes  and  toilet  req- 
uisites. The  latter  consisted  of  combs  and  hand-mir- 
rors possessed  by  the  women,  and  razors,  the  property 
of  the  men.  Micky's  Jim  was  pacing  up  and  down  the 
platform,  his  hands  deep  in  his  trousers'  pockets  and  a 
heavy-bowled  wooden  pipe  in  his  mouth.  From  time  to 
time  he  pulled  the  pipe  from  between  his  teeth,  accom- 
panying the  action  with  a  knowing  shrug  of  his  shoulders, 
and  spat  into  the  four- foot  way. 

"Is  this  yerself,  Norah?"  he  exclaimed,  casting  a 
patronising  glance  at  the  girl  as  she  entered  the  railway 
station.  "Ye  are  almost  late  for  the  train.  Did  ye  walk 
the  whole  way  ?  .  .  .  Ah !  here  she  comes !" 

The  train  came  in  sight,  puffing  round  the  curve;  the 
women  rose  from  their  seats,  clutched  hastily  at  their 
bundles  and  formed  into  a  row  on  the  verge  of  the  plat- 
form; the  men,  most  of  whom  were  smoking,  took  their 


The  Train  from  Greenanore     HI 

pipes  from  their  mouths,  hit  the  bowls  sharply  against 
their  palms,  thus  emptying  them  of  white  ash ;  then,  with 
a  feigned  look  of  unconcern  on  their  faces,  they  picked 
up  their  belongings  with  a  leisure  which  implied  that  they 
were  men  well  used  to  such  happenings.  They  were 
posing  a  little ;  knowing  that  those  who  came  to  see  them 
off  would  tell  for  days  in  Frosses  how  indifferently  Mick 
or  Ned  took  the  train  leading  to  the  land  beyond  the  wa- 
ter. "Just  went  on  the  train  with  no  more  concern  on 
their  faces  than  if  they  were  going  to  a  neighbour's 
wake !"  the  Frosses  people  would  say. 

The  train  puffed  into  the  station,  the  driver  descended 
from  his  post,  yawned,  stretched  his  arms,  and  surveyed 
the  crowd  with  a  look  of  superior  disdain.  The  fireman, 
with  an  oil-can  in  his  hands,  raced  along  the  footplate 
and  disappeared  behind  the  engine,  only  to  come  back 
almost  immediately,  puffing  and  wiping  the  sweat  from 
his  face  with  a  piece  of  torn  and  dirty  rag. 

"All  aboard !"  Micky's  Jim  shouted  in  an  excited  voice, 
forgetting  pose  for  a  moment.  "Hurry  up  now  or  the 
train  will  be  away,  leavin'  the  biggest  half  of  ye  standin' 
here.  A  train  isn't  like  Oiney  Dinchy's  cuddy  cart;  it 
hasn't  to  stop  seven  times  in  order  to  get  right  started. 
Hurry  up !  Go  in  sideways,  Willie  the  Duck ;  ye  cannot 
go  through  a  door  frontways  carrying  a  bundle  under  yer 
oxter.  Yer  stupid  ways  would  drive  a  sensible  man  to  pot ! 
Hurry  up  and  come  on  now !  Get  a  move  on  ye,  every 
one  of  the  whole  lot  of  ye !" 

Presently  all,  with  the  exception  of  the  speaker,  were 
in  their  compartments  and  looking  for  seats.  Micky's 
Jim  remained  on  the  platform,  waiting  for  the  train  to 
start,  when  he  could  show  by  boarding  it  as  it  steamed 
out  of  the  station  that  he  had  learned  a  thing  or  two  be- 
yond the  water  in  his  time ;  a  thing  or  two  not  known  to 
all  the  Frosses  people. 


H2  The  Rat-Pit 

A  ticket  collector  examined  the  tickets,  chatting 
heartily  as  he  did  so.  When  he  found  that  Norah  had 
not  procured  hers  he  ran  off  and  came  'back  with  one, 
smiling  happily  as  if  glad  to  be  of  assistance  to  the  girl. 
A  lady  and  gentleman,  tourists  no  doubt,  paced  up  and 
down  the  platform,  eyeing  everybody  with  the  tourists' 
rude  look  of  enquiry ;  a  stray  dog  sniffed  at  Micky's  Jim's 
trousers  and  got  kicked  for  its  curiosity;  the  engine 
driver  yawned  again,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  his 
open  mouth  and  mounted  to  his  place;  the  whistle 
sounded,  and  with  Micky's  Jim  standing  on  the  foot- 
board the  train  steamed  out  of  the  station. 

Norah,  who  had  never  been  on  a  train  before,  took 
up  her  seat  near  the  window,  and  rubbed  the  pane  with 
her  shawl  in  order  to  get  a  better  view  of  the  country, 
which  seemed  to  be  flying  past  with  remarkable  speed. 
The  telegraph  wires  were  sinking  and  rising;  the  poles 
like  big  hands  gripped  them  up,  dropped  them,  but  only 
to  lift  them  up  again  as  threads  are  lifted  on  the  fingers 
of  a  knitter. 

There  were  eleven  people  in  the  compartment,  four 
women  and  seven  men.  One  of  the  latter,  Eamon  Do- 
herty,  was  eating  a  piece  of  dry  bread  made  from  Indian 
meal ;  the  rest  of  the  men  were  smoking  black  clay  pipes, 
so  short  of  shank  that  the  bowls  almost  touched  the  noses 
of  the  smokers.  But  Jim's  pipe  was  different  from  any 
of  these ;  it  was  a  wooden  one,  "real  briar  root"  he  said, 
and  was  awfully  proud  of  it.  It  had  cost  three  shillings 
and  sixpence  in  a  town  beyond  the  water,  he  now  told  the 
party,  not  indeed  for  the  first  time ;  but  none  of  the  lis- 
teners believed  him.  Two  of  the  women  said  their 
prayers ;  one  wept  because  she  was  leaving  Ireland,  and 
Norah  Ryan  spent  her  time  looking  out  of  the  window. 


The  Train  from  Greenanore     113 
in 

WHO'LL  take  a  drink?"  asked  Micky's  Jim,  pulling 
a  half-bottle  of  whisky  from  his  pocket  and 
drawing  out  the  cork  with  his  ringers.  "Good  stuff  this 
is,  and  I'm  as  dry  as  the  rafters  of  hell.  .  .  .  Will  ye 
have  a  wee  drop,  Willie  the  Duck  ?" 

"No,  sure,"  answered  Willie,  who  was  sitting  beside 
the  weeping  woman,  his  one  leg  across  the  other,  and  his 
hands  clasped  over  his  stomach.  "I  would  take  it  if  I 
hadn't  the  pledge  against  drink,  indeed  I  would.  Aye, 
sure!" 

"Aye  sure,  be  hanged!"  Jim  blurted  out.  "Ye've  got 
to  take  it,  for  it's  die-dog-or-eat-the-gallows  this  time. 
Are  ye  goin'  to  take  it  ?" 

"No,  sure " 

"Why  d'ye  always  say  'Aye,  sure'  and  'No,  sure'  when 
talking  to  a  person  ?"  asked  Jim,  replacing  the  cork  in  the 
bottle,  which  he  now  tried  to  balance  on  the  point  of  his 
finger.  "Is  it  a  habit  that  ye've  got  into,  Willie  the 
Duck?" 

"Aye,  sure,"  answered  Willie,  edging  away  from 
Micky's  Jim,  who  was  balancing  the  bottle  successfully 
within  an  inch  of  the  roof.  "Ye'll  let  that  bottle  fall  on 
me  head." 

"Aye,  sure,"  shouted  Micky's  Jim  and  shook  the  bottle 
with  perilous  carelessness,  holding  out  the  free  hand  in 
case  it  should  fall.  "It  wouldn't  crack  a  wooden  head 
anyhow." 

"That's  Brockagh  station  that  we're  comin'  into  now, 
as  the  man  said,"  remarked  one  of  the  women  who  had 
been  praying.  The  woman  was  Maire  a  Glan,  who  had 
been  going  beyond  the  water  to  work  for  the  last  four 
or  five  years.  Things  were  not  going  well  at  home ;  her 


114  The  Rat-Pit 

husband  lay  ill  with  paralysis,  the  children  from  a  mone- 
tary point  of  view  were  useless  as  yet — the  oldest  boy, 
thin  and  weakly,  a  cripple  from  birth,  went  about  on 
crutches,  the  younger  ones  were  eternally  crying  for 
bread.  Maire  a  Glan  placed  the  rosary  round  her  neck 
and  took  a  piece  of  oaten  bread  from  the  bundle  at  her 
feet. 

"Will  ye  have  a  wee  bit  to  eat,  Norah  Ryan?"  she 
asked. 

"My  thanks  to  ye,  Maire  a  Glan,  but  I'm  not  hungry," 
answered  Norah,  rubbing  the  window  where  her  breath 
had  dimmed  it. 

"I  thought  that  ye  might  be,  seeing  that  yer  eye  is  not 
wet  on  leavin'  home,"  said  the  woman,  breaking  bread 
and  putting  a  bit  of  it  in  her  mouth.  "There,  the  train 
is  stopping!"  she  went  on,  "and  I  have  two  sisters  mar- 
ried within  the  stretch  of  a  mile  from  this  place." 

"Aye,  sure,"  said  Willie  the  Duck  with  his  usual  quack. 
"I  know  both,  and  once  I  had  a  notion  of  one  of  them, 
meself." 

"Lookin'  for  one  of  God's  stars  to  light  jrer_pipe  with, 
as  the  man  said,"  remarked  the  woman  contemptuously, 
fixing  her  eyes  on  the  poor  fellow's  hump.  "Ye  have  a 
burden  enough  on  yer  shoulders  and  not  to  be  thinkin'  at 
all  of  a  wife." 

"Them  that  carries  the  burden  should  be  the  first  to 
complain  of  it,"  said  Willie  the  Duck,  edging  still  further 
away  from  Micky's  Jim,  who  was  now  standing  up  and 
balancing  the  whisky  bottle  on  the  point  of  his  nose.  The 
women  tittered,  the  men  drew  their  pipes  from  their 
mouths  and  gave  vent  to  loud  guffaws.  The  train  started 
out  from  Brockagh  station,  a  porter  ran  after  it,  shut  a 
door,  and  again  Norah  Ryan  watched  the  fields  run  past 
and  the  telegraph  wires  rise  and  fall. 

"I'll  bet  that  not  one  of  ye  knows  who's  comin'  to  join 


The  Train  from  Greenanore     115 

us  at  Derry,"  said  Micky's  Jim,  tiring  of  his  play  and 
putting  the  bottle  back  in  his  pocket,  after  having  taken 
a  sup  of  its  contents. 

"Who  ?"  asked  several  voices. 

"Dermod  Flynn  from  Glenmornan." 

"I  haven't  seen  that  gasair  for  the  last  two  years  or 
more,"  said  Murtagh  Gallagher,  a  young  man  of  twenty- 
five,  who  came  from  the  townland  of  Meenahalla  in  the 
parish  of  Frosses.  "If  I  mind  right,  he  was  sort  of  soft 
in  the  head." 

A  faint  blush  rose  to  Norah  Ryan's  cheek,  and  though 
she  still  looked  out  of  the  window  she  now  failed  to  see 
the  objects  flying  past.  The  conversation  had  suddenly 
become  very  interesting  for  her. 

"He  has  been  working  with  a  farmer  beyont  the  moun- 
tains this  long  while,"  said  Micky's  Jim.  "But  I'm 
keepin'  a  place  for  him  in  the  squad,  and  ye'll  see  him  on 
the  Glasgow  boat  this  very  night.  Ye  have  said  that  he 
was  soft  in  his  head,  Murtagh  Gallagher.  Well,  that  re- 
mark applies  to  me." 

Jim  spat  on  his  hands,  rose  to  his  feet,  shoved  his  fist 
under  Murtagh's  nose  and  cried :  "Smell  that !  There's 
the  smell  of  dead  men  off  that  fist!  Dermod  Flynn  soft 
in  the  head,  indeed !  I'll  soft  ye,  ye — ye  flat-nosed  flea- 
catcher  ye !" 

"I  was  only  making  fun,"  said  Murtagh. 

"Make  it  to  his  face  then !" 

"D'ye  mind  how  Dermod  Flynn  knocked  Master  Diver 
down  with  his  fist  in  the  very  school  ?"  asked  Judy  Farrel, 
who  was  also  one  of  the  party. 

"Aye,  sure,"  said  Willie  the  Duck.  "But  it  wasn't  with 
his  fist  but  with  a  stick  that  he  struck  Master  Diver,  and 
mind  ye  he  made  the  blood  to  flow !" 

"I'll  soon  make  blood  to  flow !"  said  Micky's  Jim,  still 
holding  his  fist  under  Murtagh  Gallagher's  nose. 


n6  The  Rat-Pit 

"I  was  only  in  fun,"  Gallagher  repeated.  "Ye're  as 
hasty  as  a  briar,  Jim,  for  one  cannot  open  his  lips  but  ye 
want  to  blacken  his  eyes." 

"Now  sit  down,  Micky's  Jim,"  said  Maire  a  Glan. 
"It's  not  nice  to  see  two  people,  both  of  them  from  Done- 
gal, fighting  when  they're  away  from  home." 

"Fightin'J"  exclaimed  Jim,  dropping  into  his  seat  and 
pulling  out  his  pipe.  "I  see  no  fightin'  ...  I  wish  to  God 
that  someone  would  fight.  .  .  .  Sort  of  soft  in  the  head, 
indeed!  ...  I  never  could  stand  a  man  from  Meena- 
halla,  anyway." 

IV 

THE  train  sped  on.  House,  field,  and  roadway 
whirled  by,  and  Norah,  almost  bewildered,  ceased 
to  wonder  where  this  road  ran  to,  who  lived  in  that 
house,  what  was  the  name  of  this  village  and  whether 
that  large  building  with  the  spire  on  top  of  it  was  a 
church  (Bad  luck  to  it!)  or  chapel  (God  bless  it!). 

"I'll  see  him  again,"  she  thought,  her  mind  reverting 
to  Dermod  Flynn.  "I  wonder  how  he'll  look  now ;  if  his 
hair  is  still  as  curly  as  when  he  was  at  Frosses  school. 
.  .  .  Two  years  away  from  his  own  home  and  the  home 
of  all  his  people !  Such  a  long  while,  and  now  he'll  know 
everything  about  the  whole  world."  Mixed  with  these 
lip-spoken  words  was  the  remembrance  of  her  mother  all 
alone  in  the  old  cabin  at  Frosses,  and  a  vague  feeling  of 
regret  filled  her  mind. 

"Are  you  getting  homesick,  Norah  ?"  Maire  a  Glan  en- 
quired, speaking  in  Gaelic,  which  came  more  easily  than 
English  to  her  tongue.  "It's  not  the  dry  eye  that  always 
tells  of  the  lightest  heart,  I  know  myself." 

"Old  Oiney  Dinchy  has  a  fine  daughter,"  Eamon  Do- 
herty  was  saying. 


The  Train  from  Greenanore     117 

"She's  as  stuck-up  as  Dooey  Head,"  piped  Judy  Parrel 
in  a  weak,  thin  voice. 

"Micky's  Jim  has  a  notion  of  her,  I  hear,"  remarked 
Willie  the  Duck.  "But  what  girl  hasn't  Jim  a  notion  of  ?" 

Jim  cleaned  out  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  with  a  rusty  nail 
and  fell  asleep  while  engaged  on  the  task.  The  conver- 
sation went  on. 

"Old  Farley  McKeown  is  goin'  to  get  married  to  an 
English  lady." 

"A  young  soncy  wench  she  is,  they  say !" 

"Think  of  that,  for  old  Farley !  A  wrinkled  old  stick 
of  seventy!  Ah!  the  shameless  old  thing!" 

"It'll  be  a  cold  bed  for  the  girl  that  is  alongside  of 
him.  She'll  need  a  lot  of  blankets,  as  the  man  said." 

"Aye,  sure,  and  she  will  that." 

"But  he's  the  man  that  has  the  money  to  pay  for  them." 

Norah,  deep  in  a  dreamy  mood,  listened  idly  to 
snatches  of  song,  the  laughter,  and  the  voices  that 
seemed  to  be  speaking  at  a  very  remote  distance;  but 
after  a  while,  sinking  into  the  quiet  isolation  of  her  own 
thoughts,  the  outside  world  became  non-existent  to  the 
young  girl.  She  was  thinking  of  Dermod;  why  he  per- 
sisted in  coming  up  before  her  mind's  eye  she  could  not 
explain,  but  the  dream  of  meeting  with  him  on  the  streets 
of  Derry  exerted  a  restful  influence  over  her  and  she  fell 
into  a  light  slumber. 

"It's  the  soncy  girl  she  looks  with  the  sleep  on  her." 

Almost  imperceptibly  Norah  opened  her  eyes.  The 
transition  was  so  quiet  that  she  was  hardly  aware  that 
she  had  slept,  and  those  who  looked  on  were  hardly  aware 
that  she  had  wakened.  It  was  Maire  a  Glan  who  had 
been  speaking.  The  train  now  stood  at  a  station  and 
Micky's  Jim  was  walking  up  and  down  the  platform,  his 
pipe  in  his  mouth  and  his  hands  deep  in  his  trousers' 
pockets.  Facing  the  window  was  a  bookstall  and  a  white- 


n8  The  Rat-Pit 

faced  girl  handing  to  some  man  a  newspaper  and  a  book 
with  a  red  cover,  Norah  recollected  that  Fergus  often  read 
books  with  red  covers  just  like  the  one  that  was  handed 
over  the  counter  of  the  bookstall.  That  it  was  possible 
to  have  a  shop  containing  nothing  but  books  and  papers 
came  as  a  surprise  to  Norah  Ryan.  Over  the  bookstall 
in  white  letters  was  the  station's  name — STRABANE.  Of 
this  town  Norah  had  often  heard.  It  was  to  the  hiring 
market  of  Strabane  that  Dermod  Flynn  had  gone  two 
years  ago.  Other  two  trains  stood  at  the  station,  one  on 
each  side,  and  both  full  of  passengers. 

"Where  are  all  those  people  going,  Maire  a  Glan?" 
asked  Norah. 

"Everywhere,  as  the  man  said,"  answered  the  old 
woman,  who  was  telling  her  rosary  and  taking  no  notice 
of  anything  but  the  black  beads  passing  through  her 
fingers. 

A  boy  walked  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  carriage, 
selling  oranges  at  fourpence  a  dozen.  Micky's  Jim 
bought  sixpence  worth  and  handed  them  through  the 
window,  telling  all  inside  to  eat  as  many  as  they  liked ; 
he  would  pay.  Maire  a  Glan  left  her  beads  aside  until 
the  feast  was  finished.  The  engine  whistled ;  Micky's 
Jim  boarded  the  moving  train  and  again  the  fields  were 
running  past  and  the  telegraph  wires  rising  and  falling. 

"  Twon't  be  long  till  we  are  on  the  streets  of  Derry 
now,"  said  Micky's  Jim,  drawing  another  half-bottle  of 
whisky  from  his  pocket  and  digging  out  the  cork  with  a 
clasp-knife. 

"  'Twon't  be  very  long,  no,  sure,"  said  Willie  the  Duck, 
edging  away  from  Micky's  Jim. 


CHAPTER   XII 

DERRY 


THEY  stepped  on  the  dry  and  dusty  Derry  streets, 
the  whole  fifteen  of  them,  with  their  bundles 
over  their  shoulders  or  dangling  from  their  arms. 
Norah  Ryan,  homesickness  heavy  on  her  heart,  had  eyes 
for  everything;  and  everything  on  which  she  looked  was 
so  strange  and  foreign :  the  car  that  came  along  the 
streets,  moving  so  quickly  and  never  a  horse  drawing  it ; 
the  shops  where  hair  was  taken  off  for  a  few  pence  and 
put  on  again  for  a  few  shillings ;  shops  with  watches  and 
gold  rings  in  the  windows ;  shops  where  they  sold  noth- 
ing but  books  and  papers;  and  the  high  clocks,  facing 
four  ways  at  once  and  looking  all  over  the  town  and  the 
country  beyond. 

The  long  streets,  without  end  almost,  the  houses  with- 
out number,  the  large  mills  at  the  water-side,  where  row 
after  row  of  windows  rose  one  above  another,  until  it 
made  the  eye  dim  and  the  head  dizzy  to  look  up  at  them, 
the  noise,  the  babble  of  voices,  the  hurrying  of  men,  the 
women,  their  dresses,  filled  Norah  with  a  weary  longing 
for  her  own  fireside  so  far  away  by  the  shores  of  the 
sea  that  washed  round  Donegal. 

A  bell  tolled ;  Micky's  Jim  turned  round  and  looked  at 
Norah,  who  immediately  blessed  herself  and  commenced 
to  say  the  Angelus. 

119 


120  The  Rat-Pit 

"That's  not  the  bell  above  the  chapel  of  Greenanore, 
that's  the  town  clock,"  laughed  one  of  the  women. 

"There's  no  God  in  this  town,"  said  Micky's  Jim. 

"No  God !"  Norah  exclaimed,  stopping  in  the  midst  of 
her  prayer  and  half  inclined  to  believe  what  Micky's  Jim 
was  saying. 

"None  at  all,"  said  Micky's  Jim.  "God's  choice  about 
the  company  He  keeps  and  never  comes  near  Derry." 

The  party  went  to  the  Donegal  House,  a  cheap  little 
restaurant  near  the  quay.  The  place  was  crowded.  In 
addition  to  the  potato  squad  there  were  several  harvest- 
men  from  various  districts  in  Donegal,  and  these  were 
going  over  to  Scotland  now,  intending  to  earn  a  few 
pounds  at  the  turnip-thinning  and  haymaking  before  the 
real  harvest  came  on.  Most  of  the  harvesters  were  in- 
toxicated and  raised  a  terrible  hubbub  in  the  restaurant 
while  taking  their  food. 

Micky's  Jim,  who  was  very  drunk,  sat  on  one  chair  in 
the  dingy  dining-room,  placed  his  feet  on  another  chair, 
and  with  his  back  pressed  against  the  limewashed  wall 
sank  into  a  deep  slumber.  The  rest  of  the  party  sat 
round  a  rude  table,  much  hacked  with  knives,  and  had 
tea,  bread,  and  rancid  butter  for  their  meal.  A  slat- 
ternly servant,  a  native  of  Donegal,  served  all  customers ; 
the  mistress  of  the  house,  a  tall,  thin  woman,  with  a  long 
nose  sharp  as  a  knife  and  eyes  cruel  enough  to  match  the 
nose,  cooked  the  food.  The  tea  was  made  in  a  large  pot, 
continually  on  the  boil.  When  a  bowl  of  tea  (there  were 
no  cups)  was  lifted  out  a  similar  amount  of  water  was 
put  in  to  replace  it  and  a  three  fingerful  of  tea  was  added. 
The  man  of  the  house,  a  stout  little  fellow  with  a  red 
nose,  took  up  his  position  behind  the  bar  and  sold  whisky 
with  lightning  rapidity.  Now  and  again  he  gave  a  glass 
of  whisky  free  of  cost  to  some  of  the  harvesters  who 
weren't  drinking  very  heavily.  Those  who  got  free 


Deny  121 

drinks  usually  bought  several  glasses  of  liquor  afterwards 
and  became  the  most  drunken  men  in  the  house. 

After  a  long  sleep  Micky's  Jim  awoke  and  called  for  a 
bowl  of  tea.  Followed  all  the  way  by  the  shrill  voice  of 
her  mistress,  who  was  always  scolding  somebody,  the 
servant  girl  carried  the  tea  to  Jim,  and  the  youth  drank 
a  mouthful  of  it  while  rubbing  one  hand  vigorously 
across  his  eyes  in  order  to  drive  the  sleep  away  from 
them. 

"This  tay  is  as  long  drawn  as  the  face  of  yer  mistress," 
grumbled  Jim,  and  the  servant  giggled.  "I'm  forgettiri' 
all  about.  Dermod  Flynn  too,"  Jim  continued,  turning  to 
Norah  Ryan,  who  sat  on  the  chair  next  him.  "I  must 
go  out  and  look  for  him.  He  was  to  meet  me  at  the  quay, 
and  I'm  sure  that  he'll  be  on  the  wait  for  me  there  now." 

"Poor  Dermod!"  said  Norah  in  answer  to  Jim. 
"Maybe  he'll  get  lost  out  on  the  lone  streets,  seein'  that 
he  is  all  be  himself." 

"Him  to  get  lost!"  exclaimed  Jim.  "Catch  Dermod 
Flynn  doin'  anything  as  foolish  as  that!  He's  the  cute 
rogue  is  Dermod !" 

The  tables  and  chairs  in  the  eating-room  were  now 
cleared  away  and  someone  suggested  getting  up  a  dance. 
The  harvestmen  ceased  swearing  and  began  thumping 
their  hobnailed  boots  on  the  floor ;  Willie  the  Duck  played 
on  a  fiddle,  which  he  had  procured  years  before  for  a  few 
shillings  in  a  Glasgow  rag-market,  and  in  the  space  of  a 
minute  all  the  women,  including  old  Maire  a  Glan,  who 
looked  sixty  if  a  day,  ranged  on  the  floor  preparatory  to 
dancing  a  six-hand  reel.  On  seeing  this,  the  red-nosed 
landlord  jumped  over  the  counter  and  commenced  to 
swear  at  the  musician. 

"The  curse  of  Moses  be  on  ye !"  he  roared.  "There'll 
be  no  dancin'  here.  Thumpin'  on  the  floor,  ye  galli- 
vantin'  fools !  If  ye  want  dancin'  go  out  to  the  quay  and 


122  The  Rat-Pit 

dance.  Dance  into  the  Foyle  or  into  hell  if  ye  like,  but 
don't  dance  here !  Come  now,  stop  it  at  once !" 

"It's  such  a  roarin'  tune,"  said  Maire  a  Glan,  inter- 
rupting him. 

"It  is  that,"  answered  the  man,  "but  it  needs  a  lighter 
foot  than  yours  to  do  it  justice,  decent  woman.  There 
was  a  time  when  me  meself  could  caper  to  that ;  aye,  in- 
deed. .  .  .  But  what  am  I  talkin'  about?  There'll  be  no 
dancin'  here." 

"Just  one  wee  short  one  ?"  said  a  girl.  Willie  the  Duck 
played  with  redoubled  enthusiasm. 

"No,  nor  half  a  one,"  said  the  proprietor,  tapping  ab- 
sently on  the  floor  with  his  foot.  "God's  curse  on  ye  all ! 
D'ye  want  to  bring  down  the  house  over  me  head?  .  .  . 
'The  Movin'  Bogs  of  Allen'  that's  playin',  isn't  it?  A 
good  tune  it,  surely.  But  stop  it!  stop  it!"  roared  the 
red-nosed  man,  cutting  a  caper,  half  a  step  and  half  a 
kick  in  front  of  the  fiddler.  "I  don't  want  your  damned 
dancin',  I  can't  stand  it.  God  have  mercy  on  me !  Sure 
I'm  wantin'  to  foot  it  meself !" 


ii 

BUT  the  dancing  was  in  full  swing  now,  despite  the 
vehemence  of  the  proprietor.  He  looked  round 
helplessly,  and  finding  that  his  wife  was  already  dancing 
with  old  Eamon  Doherty  he  seized  hold  of  the  servant 
girl  and  whirled  her  into  the  midst  of  the  party  with  a 
loud  whoop  that  surprised  himself  even  as  much  as  it 
surprised  the  Donegal  dancers. 

Micky's  Jim  was  dancing  with  Norah  Ryan  and  press- 
ing her  tightly  to  his  body.  The  youth's  breath  smelt  of 
whisky  and  his  movements  were  violent  and  irregular. 


Derry  123 

"Ye're  hurtin'  me,  Jim,"  said  the  girl,  and  he  lifted  her 
in  his  arms  and  carried  her  to  a  seat. 

"Now  are  ye  better?"  he  asked,  not  at  all  unkindly. 
"Will  I  get  ye  a  glass  of  cordial  ?" 

"Don't  bother  about  cordial,"  said  the  girl;  "but  go 
out  and  look  for  Dermod  Flynn.  Ye  said  that  ye'd  go 
out  a  good  while  ago." 

"Why  are  ye  so  anxious  about  him,  girsha?"  asked 
Jim.  "One  would  think  that  he  was  a  brother  of  yours. 
Maybe  indeed " 

He  paused,  looked  round,  then  without  another  word 
he  rose,  went  out  into  the  street' and  took  his  way  to  the 
wharf,  and  there,  when  he  could  not  find  Dermod  Flynn 
after  a  few  minutes'  search,  he  sat  down  on  a  capstan,  lit 
his  pipe  and  puffed  huge  clouds  of  smoke  up  into  the  air. 

"Now  I  wonder  why  that  Norah  Ryan  is  so  anxious 
about  Dermod  Flynn  ?"  he  muttered.  "Man !  it's  hard  to 
know,  for  these  women  are  all  alike.  .  .  .  By  Gripes, 
she's  a  fine  built  bit  of  a  lassie.  So  is  old  Oiney  Dinchy's 
daughter  .  .  .  Frosses  and  Glenmornan  for  women  and 
fighters !  .  .  .  And  the  best  fighters  don't  always  get  the 
best  women.  Now,  that  Norah  Ryan  will  have  nothin' 
at  all  to  do  with  me  as  far  as  I  can  see;  it's  Dermod 
Flynn  that  she  wants.  .  .  .  I'll  have  to  look  round  for 
another  wench,  and  girsha  Oiney  Dinchy  (Oiney 
Dinchy's  daughter)  is  a  soncy  slip  of  a  cutty." 

When  Dermod  Flynn  came  along  Jim  had  to  look  at 
him  very  closely  before  realising  that  this  was  the  youth 
whom  he  had  known  in  Glenmornan  two  summers  be- 
fore. Dermod  stood  sturdily  on  his  legs;  his  shoulders 
were  broad,  his  back  straight,  and  his  well-formed  chest 
betokened  great  strength  even  now  at  the  age  of  four- 
teen. A  bundle  dangled  on  his  arm;  one  knee  was  out 
through  his  trousers,  and  he  carried  a  hazel  stick  in  his 
hand. 


124  The  Rat-Pit 

"Patrick's  Dermod!"  exclaimed  Jim,  a  glance  of  glad 
recognition  coming  into  his  eyes  when  he  had  stared  for 
a  moment  at  Flynn.  "By  Gripes!  ye've  grown  to  be  a 
big  healthy  bucko  since  last  I  saw  ye." 

Dermod  flushed  with  pleasure.  Jim  began  to  ply  him 
with  questions  about  his  work  in  Tyrone,  his  masters, 
whether  they  were  good  or  bad,  and — above  all — if  he 
had  ever  had  a  fight  since  he  left  home. 

Dermod  assured  him  that  he  had  had  many  a  hard, 
gruelling  fight ;  knocked  down  a  man  twice  his  size  with 
one  blow  of  his  fist  and  blackened  the  eyes  of  a  youth 
who  was  head  and  shoulders  taller  than  himself. 

"And  who  have  ye  with  ye,  Jim?"  he  asked.  "Any 
of  the  Glenmornan  people  ?" 

"Lots,"  answered  Jim.  "Willie  the  Duck,  Eamon  Do- 
herty,  Judy  Farrel,  Maire  a  Glan,  Norah  Ryan — but  she's 
not  from  Glenmornan,  she's  a  Presses  girsha." 

He  looked  sharply  at  Dermod  as  he  spoke. 

"She  was  at  Glenmornan  school  with  me,"  said  Flynn. 
"Where  is  she  now?" 

"There's  a  dance  goin'  on  in  the  Donegal  House ;  that's 
where  we  had  our  bit  and  sup,  and  she's  shaking  her  feet 
on  the  floor  there." 

"Can  we  go  there  and  see  the  dancers?" 

"There's  not  much  time  now,"  said  Jim.  "And  there's 
the  boat,  that  big  one  nearest  us,  that  we're  goin'  on  this 
very  night.  She's  a  rotten  tub  and  we'll  be  very  sick 
goin'  round  the  Mulls  of  Cantyre." 

"Will  we?" 

"What  I  mean  is  that  ye  and  all  the  rest  of  the  men 
and  women  will  be  sick.  I  was  never  sea-sick  in  my  life." 

"When  is  it  going  away?" 

"In  about  half  an  hour  from  now." 

"How  long  will  it  take  us  to  get  across?"  asked  Der- 
mod. "Ten  hours?" 


Derry  125 

"God  look  on  yer  wit!"  exclaimed  Jim.  "If  there's 
a  fog  on  the  Clyde  it  will  maybe  take  three  days — maybe 
more.  Ye  can  never  know  what  a  boat's  goin'  to  do. 
Ye  can  no  more  trust  it  than  ye  can  trust  a  woman." 


CHAPTER   XIII 

A  WILD  NIGHT 


THE  dance  came  to  an  end,  and,  worn  out  with 
their  exertions,  the  women  picked  up  their 
shawls  and  wrapped  them  round  their  shoulders. 
Then  getting  their  bundles  they  went  towards  the  wharf, 
Willie  the  Duck  leading,  his  fiddle  under  his  arm  and  his 
bundle  tied  over  his  shoulders  with  a  string.  Coming  to 
the  quay  they  passed  through  a  gloomy  grain-shed,  where 
heating  bags  of  wheat  sent  a  steam  out  into  the  air.  Sud- 
denly, gazing  through  the  rising  vapour,  Norah  saw 
horses  up  in  the  sky  and  she  could  hear  them  neighing 
loudly.  For  a  moment  she  paused  in  terror  and  wondered 
how  such  a  thing  could  be,  then  recollected  that  in  a 
town,  where  there  was  no  God,  anything  might  be  pos- 
sible. Once  out  in  the  open  Maire  a  Glan  pointed  to  the 
fall-and-tackle,  hardly  distinguishable  at  a  distance, 
which  was  lifting  the  animals  off  the  pier  and  lowering 
them  down  to  the  main  deck  of  the  boat.  The  horses 
were  turning  round  awkwardly  and  snorting  wildly,  ter- 
rified by  the  sound  of  the  sea. 

Bags  of  grain  were  being  lifted  on  long  chains ;  dark 
derricks  shoved  out  lean  arms  that  waved  to  and  fro  as 
if  inviting  somebody  to  come  near;  cattle  lowing  and 
slipping  were  being  hammered  by  the  drovers'  black- 
thorns into  the  hold;  a  tall  man  with  face  fierce  and 

126 


A  Wild  Night  127 

swarthy,  eyes  bright  as  fire,  and  mouth  like  a  raw,  red 
scar,  was  roaring  out  orders  in  a  shrill  voice,  and  sud- 
denly in  the  midst  of  all  this  Norah  saw  Micky's  Jim 
leaning  against  the  funnel  of  the  boat,  his  hands  deep  in 
his  trousers'  pockets  and  the  eternal  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
apparently  heedless  of  all  that  was  going  on  around  him. 

Beside  Jim  stood  one  whom  Norah  knew,  but  one  who 
had  changed  a  great  deal  since  she  had  seen  him  last.  As 
she  went  up  the  gang-plank,  stepping  timidly,  cowering 
under  the  great  derrick  that  wheeled  above,  she  felt  that 
a  pair  of  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her,  piercing  into  her  very 
soul.  She  turned  her  gaze  towards  the  deck  and  found 
Dermod  Flynn  looking  straight  at  her  as  she  made  her 
way  aboard.  In  an  instant  her  eye  had  taken  the  whole 
picture  of  the  youth,  his  clothes,  the  coat,  much  the  worse 
for  wear,  his  trousers,  thin  at  knee  and  frilly  at  the  shoe- 
mouth,  his  cap  torn  at  rim  and  crown,  the  stray  locks  of 
hair  straggling  down  his  forehead,  the  bundle  lying  at 
his  feet,  and  the  hazel  stick  which  he  held  in  his  hand, 
probably  even  yet  in  imitation  of  the  cattle  drovers  who 
went  along  Glenmornan  road  on  the  way  to  the  fair  of 
Greenanore.  These  things  Norah  noticed  with  a  girl's 
quick  intuitive  perception,  but  what  struck  her  most  for- 
cibly was  Dermod's  look  of  expectation  as  he  watched 
her  come  up  the  gang-plank  towards  him. 

"Dermod  Flynn,  I  hardly  knew  ye  at  all,"  she  said, 
putting  out  her  hand  and  smiling  slightly.  "Ye've  got 
very  big  these  last  two  years." 

"So  did  you,  Norah,"  Dermod  answered,  looking  curi- 
ously at  the  small  white  hand  which  he  gripped  in  his 
own.  "You  are  almost  as  tall  as  I  am  myself." 

"Why  wouldn't  I  be  as  tall  as  you  are  ?"  Norah  replied, 
although  Dermod  had  unknowingly  squeezed  her  hand  in 
a  hard,  tense  grip.  "Am  I  not  a  year  and  a  half  older?" 

When  her  hand  was  released  her  skin  showed  white 


128  The  Rat-Pit 

where  Dermod's  fingers  had  gripped  her,  but  she  did  not 
feel  angry.  On  the  contrary  the  girl  was  glad  because 
he  was  so  strong. 

"Come  over  here !"  cried  Maire  a  Glan,  who  was  sitting 
on  her  bundle  beside  the  rail,  smoking  a  black  clay  pipe 
and  spitting  on  the  deck. 

The  noise  was  deafening;  the  rowting  of  the  cattle  in 
the  pens  became  louder ;  a  man  on  the  deck  gave  a  sharp 
order;  the  gangway  was  pulled  off  with  a  resounding 
clash,  the  funnel  began  to  rise  and  fall;  Norah  saw  the 
pier  move;  a  few  women  were  weeping;  some  of  the 
passengers  waved  handkerchiefs  (none  of  them  too 
clean)  to  the  people  on  the  quay;  rails  were  bound  to- 
gether, hatches  battened  down ;  sailors  hurried  to  and  fro ; 
a  loud  hoot  could  be  heard  overhead  near  the  top  of  the 
funnel  and  the  big  vessel  shuffled  out  to  the  open  sea. 


ii 

THE  boat  was  crowded  with  harvestmen  from 
Frosses,  potato-diggers  from  Glenmornan  and 
Tweedore;  cattle  drovers  from  Coleraine  and  London- 
derry, second-hand  clothes-dealers,  bricklayers'  labourers, 
farm  hands,  young  men  and  old,  women  and  children ;  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  people. 

"There  are  lots  of  folk  gathered  together  on  this  piece 
of  floatin'  wood,"  said  Maire  a  Glan,  crossing  herself,  a 
habit  of  hers,  when  speaking  of  anything  out  of  the  ordi- 
nary. "The  big  boat  is  a  wonderful  thing;  beds  with 
warm  blankets  and  white  sheets  to  sleep  in,  tables  to  sit 
down  at  and  have  tea  in  real  cups  and  saucers,  just  the 
same  as  Father  Devaney  has  at  Greenanore,  and  him  not 
out  at  all  in  the  middle  of  the  ocean  on  a  piece  of  floatin' 
wood!" 


A  Wild  Night  129 

"And  will  we  get  a  bed  to  sleep  in  ?"  asked  Norah  Ryan. 

"Why  should  we  be  gettin'  a  grand  bed?  We're  only 
the  poor  people,  and  the  poor  people  have  no  right  to 
these  things  on  a  big  boat  like  this  one,"  said  the  old 
woman,  putting  her  black  clay  pipe  into  the  pocket  of  her 
apron.  "There  are  no  grand  beds  for  people  like  us; 
they're  only  for  the  gentry." 

"Wouldn't  a  bed  look  nice  on  a  Frosses  curragh  ?"  said 
Micky's  Jim,  sitting  down  on  the  bundle  belonging  to 
Willie  the  Duck  and  pulling  the  cork  from  a  bottle  of 
whisky  which  he  had  procured  in  Derry.  "Will  ye  have 
a  drop,  Maire  a  Glan?"  he  asked. 

"I'll  not  be  havin'  any,"  said  the  old  woman,  who  never- 
theless put  out  her  hand,  caught  the  bottle  and  raised  it 
to  her  lips.  "It's  a  nice  drop  this,"  she  said,  when  she 
had  swallowed  several  mouth fuls,  "but  I'm  not  goin'  to 
drink  any  of  it.  I'm  only  just  tastin'  it." 

"If  it  was  my  bottle  I'd  be  content  if  ye  only  just  smelt 
it,"  said  Eamon  Doherty,  with  a  dry  laugh. 

"Dermod  Flynn  had  one  great  fight  in  Tyrone,"  said 
Micky's  Jim  after  draining  some  of  the  liquor.  "Gave 
his  master  one  in  the  guts  and  knocked  him  as  sick  as  a 
dog." 

"Get  away!" 

"So  he  was  sayin'.  Dermod  Flynn,  come  here  and 
give  an  account  of  yerself ." 

The  young  fellow,  who  was  watching  the  waves  slide 
past  the  side  of  the  vessel,  came  forward  when  Micky's 
Jim  called  him. 

"Give  an  account  of  yerself,  Dermod  Flynn,"  Jim  cried. 
"Did  ye  not  knock  down  yer  boss  with  one  in  the  guts? 
That  was  the  thing  to  do ;  that's  what  a  Glenmornan  man 
should  do.  I  mind  once  when  I  was  coal  humpin'  on  the 
Greenock  Docks " 

And  without  waiting  for  an  answer  to  his  question,  Jim 


130  The  Rat-Pit 

narrated  the  story  of  a  fight  which  had  once  taken  place 
between  himself  and  a  Glasgow  sailor. 

The  sun,  red  as  a  live  coal,  was  sinking  towards  the 
west,  the  murmur,  powerful  and  gentle,  of  a  trembling 
wind  could  be  heard  overhead ;  a  white,  ghostly  mist  stole 
down  from  the  shore  on  either  side  and  spread  far  out 
over  the  waters.  The  waves  lapped  against  the  side  of 
the  vessel  with  short,  sudden  splashes,  and  the  sound  of 
the  labouring  screw  could  be  heard  pulsing  loudly  through 
the  air.  A  black  trail  of  smoke  spread  out  behind;  a 
flight  of  following  gulls,  making  'little  apparent  effort, 
easily  kept  pace  with  the  vessel. 

"They  will  follow  us  to  Scotland,"  said  Maire  a  Glan, 
pointing  at  the  birds  with  a  long  claw-like  finger. 

Most  of  the  men  were  drunk ;  a  few  lying  stretched  on 
the  deck  were  already  asleep,  and  the  rest  were  singing 
and  quarrelling.  Micky's  Jim  stopped  in  the  middle  of  an 
interesting  story,  a  new  one,  but  also  about  a  fight,  and 
joined  in  a  song;  old  Maire  a  Glan  helped  him  with  the 
chorus. 

in 

A  MAN,  full  of  drink  and  fight,  paraded  along  the 
deck,  his  stride  uncertain  and  unsteady,  a  look  born 
of  the  dark  blood  of  mischief  showing  in  his  eyes.  He 
had  already  been  fighting ;  in  his  hand  he  carried  an  open 
clasp-knife;  one  eyebrow  had  been  gashed  and  the  strip 
of  torn  flesh  hung  down  even  as  far  as  his  high  cheek- 
bones. He  was  dressed  in  a  dirty  pea-jacket  and  moleskin 
trousers ;  a  brown  leather  belt  with  a  huge,  shiny  buckle 
was  tied  round  his  waist,  and  the  neck  of  a  half-empty 
whisky  bottle  could  be  seen  peeping  over  the  rim  of  his 
coat  pocket.  His  shoulders  were  broad  and  massive,  his 
neck  short  and  wrinkled  and  the  torn  shirt  showed  his 


A  Wild  Night  131 

deep  chest,  alive  with  muscles  and  terribly  hairy,  more 
like  an  animal's  than  a  man's.  His  hands,  which  seemed 
to  have  never  been  washed,  were  knotted  and  gnarled 
like  the  branches  of  an  old  and  stunted  bush. 

"This  is  young  O'Donnel  from  the  County  Donegal, 
and  young  O'Donnel  doesn't  give  a  damn  for  any  man 
on  this  boat !"  he  roared,  speaking  of  himself  in  the  third 
person,  and  brandishing  the  knife  carelessly  around  him. 
"I  can  fight  like  a  two  year  old  bullock,  and  a  blow  from 
young  O'Donnel  is  like  a  kick  from  a  young  colt  that's 
new  to  the  grass.  I'm  a  Rosses  man  and  I  don't  care  a 
damn  for  any  soul  on  this  bloody  boat — not  one  damn! 
So  there  ye  are!" 

Suddenly  observing  Dermod  Flynn  staring  at  him,  he 
slouched  forward  and  struck  the  boy  heavily  across  the 
face  with  a  full  swing  of  his  left  fist.  Dermod  dropped 
quietly  to  the  deck;  Micky's  Jim,  who  was  suggesting  to 
Willie  the  Duck  that  the  fiddle  should  be  flung  into  the 
sea,  threw  down  the  instrument  which  he  held  and,  jump- 
ing on  the  top  of  O'Donnel,  with  a  sudden  movement  of 
his  hand  sent  the  knife  flying  into  the  sea. 

"Ye  long  drink  of  water,  I'll  do  for  ye !"  shouted  Jim, 
and  with  feet  and  fists  he  hammered  O'Donnel  into 
insensibility. 

Dermod  Flynn  regained  his  feet  with  a  swollen  cheek 
and  a  long  red  gash  stretching  along  his  face  from  ear  to 
chin.  He  was  helped  to  a  seat  by  one  of  the  party ;  Norah 
Ryan  procured  some  water  and  bathed  his  face,  rubbing 
her  fingers  tenderly  over  the  sore. 

"It  was  a  shame  to  hit  ye,  Dermod,"  she  said.  "One 
would  think  that  a  big  man  like  that  wouldn't  hit  a  small 
boy  like  yourself !" 

Dermod  flushed  and  his  eyes  lit  up  as  if  he  was  going 
to  say  something  cutting,  but  Norah  checked  the  words 


132  The  Rat-Pit 

by  pressing  her  hand  across  his  brow  and  looking  at  him 
with  eyes  of  womanly  understanding. 

"I  know  what  ye  are  goin'  to  say,  Dermod,"  she  said. 
"Ye're  goin'  to  tell  me  that  ye  are  a  man:  and  no  one 
can  deny  that.  Ye  were  a  man  when  ye  were  at  school 
and  hit  the  master.  Sure  I  know  meself  what  ye  had 
in  yer  head  to  say." 

Dermod  resented  the  words  of  consolation  and  felt 
like  rising  and  walking  away  from  the  girl,  if  her  fair 
fingers  had  not  been  pressing  so  softly  and  tenderly 
against  his  cheek.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  re- 
signed himself  to  the  ministrations  of  Norah. 

"By  God,  I  wasn't  long  with  him !"  cried  Micky's  Jim, 
kicking  idly  at  Willie  the  Duck's  fiddle  which  still  lay  on 
the  deck.  "I  just  gave  him  one  in  the  jaw  and  three  on 
the  guts.  Ah!  that  was  the  way  to  do  it!  It  takes  a 
Glenmornan  kiddie  to  use  his  mits  in  this  bloomin'  hole. 
Glenmornan,  and  every  inch  of  it,  forever !  Whoo ! 
There's  no  man  on  this  boat  could  take  a  rise  out  of  me ; 
not  one  mother's  son !  Fight !  I  could  fight  any  damned 
mug  aboard  this  bleedin'  vessel.  Look  at  my  fist ;  smell 
it !  There's  the  smell  of  dead  men  off  it !" 

Micky's  Jim,  now  doubly  drunk  with  liquor  and  excite- 
ment, paced  up  and  down  the  deck,  challenging  all  aboard 
to  fight,  to  put  up  their  "fives"  to  him.  Presently  the 
quarrel  became  general. 

All  along  the  deck  and  down  in  the  steerage  cabin  a 
terrible  uproar  broke  forth;  men  fastened  on  to  one 
another's  throats,  kicking,  tearing,  and  cursing  loudly. 
The  darkness  had  fallen ;  the  buoys,  floating  past,  bobbed 
up  and  down  in  the  water,  their  little  bright  lights  twin- 
kling merrily.  The  pale  ghost  of  a  moon  stole  into  the 
heavens  and  a  million  stars  kept  it  company.  But  those 
aboard  the  Derry  boat  took  little  heed  of  the  moon  or 
stars.  Over  coils  of  ropes,  loose  chains,  boxes  and  bun- 


A  Wild  Night  133 

dies,  sleeping  women  and  crying  babies,  they  staggered, 
fought  and  fell,  trampling  everything  with  which  they 
came  in  contact. 

A  man  went  headlong  down  the  steerage  stair  and  a 
second  followed,  thrown  from  above.  Beside  the  door  a 
bleeding  face,  out  of  which  gleamed  a  pair  of  lustrous 
eyes,  glowered  sinister  for  a  moment,  a  fist  hit  sharply 
against  the  eyebrows,  the  eyes  closed;  a  knife  shone, 
glancing  brightly  against  the  woodwork,  the  man  with 
the  bloodstained  face  groaned  and  fell ;  a  woman  crouch- 
ing at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  was  trampled  upon,  she 
shrieked  and  the  shriek  changed  into  a  volley  of  curses, 
which  in  turn  died  away  into  a  low,  murmurous  plaint  of 
tearful  pity.  Men  sought  one  another's  faces  grunting 
and  gasping,  long  lean  arms  stretched  out  everywhere  and 
fists  shot  through  the  smoke-laden  atmosphere  of  the 
steerage  .  .  .  splotches  of  blood  showed  darkly  on  the 
deck  .  .  .  somewhere  from  below  came  the  tinkle  of 
glasses  and  the  loud  chorus  of  an  Irish  folk-song. 

The  fighters,  overcome  by  their  mad  exertion,  collapsed 
three  or  four  in  a  heap  and  slept  where  they  had  fallen. 
Outside  on  the  open  deck  Micky's  Jim  lay  prostrate,  his 
head  on  the  lap  of  Maire  a  Glan,  who  was  also  asleep,  her 
two  remaining  upper  teeth,  tobacco-stained  and  yellow, 
showing  in  the  moonlight.  All  over  the  deck  men  and 
women  lay  curled  up  like  dogs.  Near  the  rail  a  woman's 
bare  arm  showed  for  a  moment  over  a  bundle  of  rags, 
then  twined  snakelike  round  the  neck  of  a  sleeping  child. 
On  a  bench  astern  Norah  Ryan  sat,  her  shawl  drawn 
tightly  over  her  head  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  moon-sil- 
vered sea  that  stretched  out  behind.  A  great  loneliness 
had  overcome  her ;  a  loneliness  which  she  did  not  under- 
stand. It  seemed  as  if  something  had  snapped  within  her, 
as  if  every  fabric  of  her  life  had  been  torn  to  shreds.  The 
stars  overhead  looked  so  cold,  everything  seemed  so  deso- 


134  The  Rat-Pit 

late.  A  chill  wind  swept  against  her  face,  and  she  could 
hear  the  water  soughing  along  the  vessel's  side  and  crying 
wearily.  Snores,  groans,  and  sleepy  voices  came  through 
the  open  doors  and  resounded  in  the  passage  at  the  head 
of  the  steerage  stairs.  Human  bodies  were  heaped  to- 
gether in  compact  masses  everywhere.  The  fighting  had 
come  to  an  end — though  now  and  then,  as  a  flame  flickers 
up  for  a  second  over  a  dying  fire,  a  man  would  totter 
from  a  drunken  sleep  and  challenge  everybody  on  board 
to  fight  him.  But  even  when  speaking  loudest  he  would 
drop  to  the  deck  with  a  thud  and  fall  asleep  again. 


IV 

LISTENING  to  the  engine  pulsing  heavily  and  the 
propeller  hitting  the  water  with  an  intermittent  buzz 
Norah  Ryan  fell  asleep.  On  opening  her  eyes  again  she 
could  see  the  moon  further  up  the  sky  and  the  stars  twin- 
kling colder  than  ever.  Dermod  Flynn,  his  face  swollen 
horribly,  was  beside  her,  looking  at  her,  and  she  was 
pleased  to  see  him. 

"Sit  down  beside  me,  Dermod,"  she  said.  "It  will  be 
warmer  for  two." 

He  sat  down,  his  eyes  sparkling  with  pleasure ;  the  girl 
nestled  close  to  his  side  in  the  darkness,  and  one  timid 
little  hand  stole  softly  into  his. 

"Ye  nearly  squeezed  the  hand  off  me  when  I  met  ye 
this  evenin',"  she  said,  but  there  was  no  reproof  in  her 
voice,  and  he  understood  that  she  was  not  angry  with  his 
strong  handshake,  even  though  it  had  given  her  pain. 

"Did  I?" 

"Ye  did.  .  .  .  Isn't  it  cold?" 

"Cold  as  the  breath  of  a  stepmother,"  said  Dermod. 
"There  was  great  fighting!" 


A  Wild  Night  135 

"Why  do  men  always  fight?"  asked  Norah. 

"Because  it's — it's  their  way." 

"Why  is  that?" 

"You'll  not  understand ;  you're  only  a  girl." 

"Will  I  never  understand  ?"  asked  Norah. 

"Never,"  Dermod  answered.  "And  we're  goin'  to  be 
sick  too,"  he  went  on  with  boyish  irrelevance.  "That's 
when  we're  passin'  round  the  Mull  of  Cantyre.  So 
Micky's  Jim  said.  And  we're  goin'  to  see  Paddy's  Mile- 
stone, that's  if  we  aren't  asleep." 

"Where's  Paddy's  Milestone?" 

"It's  a  big  rock  out  in  the  middle  of  the  sea,  half-way 
between  Ireland  and  Scotland,"  said  Dermod. 

"Oh,  is  that  it?  ...  What  kind  of  time  had  ye  in 
Tyrone  ?" 

"Not  so  bad,  but  Scotland  will  be  a  better  place.  .  .  . 
Is  old  Master  Diver  livin'  away?" 

"Dead,  God  rest  his  soul.  He  was  only  ill  for  three 
days.  And  poor  Maire  a  Crick  is  gone  as  well." 

"She  was  as  old  as  the  Glenmornan  hills.  And  old 
Oiney  Dinchy?" 

"He  got  one  of  his  eyes  knocked  out  with  the  horns 
of  a  cow.  That  was  because  the  priest  put  the  seven 
curses  on  him ;  but  that  was  before  ye  went  away." 

"Is  Fergus  writin'  home  now?" 

"We  haven't  heard  hilt  nor  hair  of  him  for  a  long 
while,"  said  Norah  sadly.  "Maybe  it  is  that  he  is  dead." 

"Don't  say  that !"  Dermod  exclaimed,  fixing  a  pair  of 
sad  eyes  on  the  girl. 

"Well,  it  is  a  wonder  that  we're  not  hearin'  from  him," 
Norah  went  on,  "a  great  wonder  entirely.  .  .  .  Your  face 
is  very  ...  Is  it  sore  now?" 

The  conversation  died  away;  the  boy  and  girl  pressed 
closer  for  warmth  and  presently  both  were  asleep.  When 
they  awoke  the  pale  dawn  was  breaking.  A  drunken  man 


136  The  Rat-Pit 

lay  asleep  at  their  feet,  his  face  turned  upwards,  one  arm 
stretched  out  at  full  length  and  the  other  curled  over  his 
breast.  Beside  him  on  the  deck  was  an  empty  whisky 
bottle  and  the  bowl  of  a  broken  clay  pipe. 

"Have  ye  seen  Scotland  yet?"  asked  the  girl,  rubbing 
her  fingers  over  her  eyelids. 

"That's  it,  I  think,"  Dermod  answered,  pointing  at  the 
coastline  which  showed  like  a  well-defined  cloud  against 
the  sky-line  miles  away. 

"Have  we  passed  Paddy's  Milestone?" 

"I  don't  know.    I  was  sleepin'." 

"Isn't  it  like  Ireland  ?"  remarked  Norah  after  she  had 
gazed  for  a  while  in  silence  at  the  coastline.  "I  would 
like  to  be  goin'  back  again,  Dermod,"  she  said. 

"I'm  goin'  to  make  a  great  fortune  in  Scotland,  Norah," 
said  the  youth,  releasing  the  girl's  hand  which  he  had 
held  all  night.  "And  I'm  goin'  to  make  ye  a  lady." 

"Why  would  ye  be  goin'  to  do  the  likes  of  that?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Dermod  confessed,  and  the  boy  and 
girl  laughed  together. 


CHAPTER   XIV 


BEYOND   THE    WATER 


A  HEAVY  fall  of  rain  came  with  the  dawn,  and  the 
Clyde  was  a  dreary  smudge  of  grey  when  the 
boat  made  fast  alongside  Greenock  Quay  and 
discharged  its  passengers.  Again  the  derricks  began  to 
creak  complainingly  on  their  pivots;  a  mob  of  excited 
cattle  streamed  up  the  narrow  gangways,  followed  by 
swearing  drovers,  who  prodded  the  dewlaps  and  hind- 
quarters of  the  animals  with  their  short,  heavy  blackthorn 
sticks. 

A  tall,  thin  man,  somewhat  over  middle  age,  with  bushy 
beard,  small  penetrating  eyes  and  wrinkles  between  the 
eyebrows,  met  the  squad  as  they  disembarked.  He  bade 
good-morning  to  Micky's  Jim  just  as  if  he  had  seen  him 
the  night  before,  and  in  a  loud,  hurried  voice  gave  him 
several  orders  as  to  what  he  had  to  do  during  the  summer 
season  at  the  digging.  The  tall,  thin  man  was  the  potato- 
merchant. 

"How  many  have  ye  with  ye  from  Ireland  ?"  he  asked 
Micky's  Jim. 

Although  knowing  the  number  of  men  it  contained,  Jim, 
with  an  air  of  importance,  began  to  count  the  members  of 
the  squad,  carefully  enumerating  each  person  by  name. 

"Get  your  squad  to  work  as  soon  as  you  can,"  said  the 
merchant,  his  Adam's  apple  bobbing  in  and  out  with  every 


138  The  Rat-Pit 

movement  of  his  throat.  He  gave  Jim  no  time  to  finish 
the  count.  "I  see  you're  three  or  four  short  of  last  year — 
four,  isn't  it?  There's  some  people  waitin'  for  a  start 
over  there,  so  you'd  better  take  a  few  of  them  with  you." 

Opposite  the  squad  a  dozen  or  more  men  and  women 
stood,  looking  on  eagerly,  all  of  them  shivering  with  the 
cold  and  the  water  dripping  from  their  rags.  These  Jim 
approached  with  a  very  self-conscious  swagger  and  en- 
tered into  conversation  with  the  women,  who  began  to 
speak  volubly. 

"What's  wrong  with  them  ?"  asked  Dermod  Flynn,  and 
Maire  a  Glan,  to  whom  he  addressed  the  question,  drew 
a  snuff-box  from  her  pocket  and  took  a  pinch. 

"They're  lookin'  for  a  job,  as  the  man  said,"  she  an- 
swered and  her  teeth  chattered  as  she  spoke. 

"When  do  we  start  our  work?"  asked  Norah  Ryan. 

"Work !"  laughed  Judy  Farrel,  and  her  laugh  ended  in 
a  fit  of  coughing.  "Work,  indeed!"  she  stammered  on 
regaining  breath.  "Ye'll  soon  have  plenty  of  that  and 
no  fear!" 

"Come  now,"  Micky's  Jim  shouted  as  he  came  back  to 
his  own  squad  followed  by  two  men  and  two  women  who 
detached  themselves  from  the  crowd  that  was  looking  for 
work.  "We  must  go  down  to  the  Isle  of  Bute  to-day  and 
get  some  potatoes  dug  in  a  hurry.  Take  yer  bundles  in 
yer  hands  and  make  a  start  for  the  station." 

"It's  Gourock  Ellen  that's  in  it,"  said  Maire  a  Glan, 
when  the  strange  women  came  forward.  "Gourock  Ellen 
and  Annie,  as  the  man  said." 

G^urock  Ellen  was  a  tall,  angular  woman,  who  might  at 
one  period  of  her  life  have  been  very  handsome,  but  who 
now,  owing  to  the  results  of  a  hard  and  loose  life,  bore  all 
the  indelible  marks  of  dissolute  and  careless  living.  Her 
face  was  hard,  pock-marked,  and  stamped  with  a  look  of 
impudent  defiance ;  she  smiled  with  ill-concealed  contempt 


"Beyond  the  Water"  139 

at  Maire  a  Glan  and  looked  with  mock  curiosity  at  the 
warty  hand  which  the  old  woman  held  out  to  her. 

"There's  a  lot  of  new  faces  in  the  squad,"  she  said, 
glancing  in  turn  at  Norah  Ryan  and  Dermod  Flynn. 
"Not  bad  lookin',  the  two  of  them,  and  they'll  sleep  in 
the  yin  bed  yet,  I'll  go  bail!  And  you,  have  you  the 
fiddle  with  you?" 

"Aye,  sure,  and  I  have,"  said  Willie  the  Duck,  to  whom 
she  addressed  this  question.  "I  don't  go  far  without  it." 

"You  don't,"  answered  the  woman,  and  her  tones  im- 
plied that  she  would  have  added,  "you  fool!"  if  she 
thought  it  worth  while. 

Her  companion,  who  hardly  spoke  a  word,  was  some- 
what older,  swarthy  of  appearance  and  very  ragged. 
Her  toes  peeped  out  through  the  torn  uppers  of  her  hob- 
nailed boots,  and  when  she  lifted  her  dress  to  wring  the 
water  from  the  hem  it  could  be  seen  that  she  wore  no 
stockings  and  that  her  dark,  thin  legs  were  threaded  with 
varicose  veins  above  the  calves. 

"D'ye  see  them  ?"  Micky's  Jim  whispered  in  Dermod's 
ear.  "They  cannot  make  a  livin'  on  the  streets  and  they 
have  to  come  and  work  with  us." 

"I  don't  like  the  look  of  them,"  Dermod  whispered, 
rubbing  his  hand  over  the  sore  on  his  face. 

"By  God !  that  was  a  great  dunt  that  O'Donnel  gave 
ye,"  said  Jim.  "They're  great  women,  them,  without  a 
doubt,"  he  added.  "It's  a  long  while  since  Gourock  Ellen 
broke  her  pitcher." 

"How?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"Ye're  green,  Dermod,  green  as  a  cabbage,"  said  Jim, 
chuckling.  "Them  women — but  I'll  tell  ye  all  about  it 
some  other  time.  Willie  the  Duck  is  a  great  friend  of 
them  same  women.  He  knows  what  they  are,  as  well  as 
anyone,  don't  ye,  Willie?" 

"Aye,  sure,"  said  Willie,  who  did  not  know  what  Jim 


140  The  Rat-Pit 

was  speaking  about,  but  wished  to  be  agreeable  to  every- 
body. 

II 

A  SHORT  run  on  a  fast  train  from  Upper  Greenock  to 
Wemyss  Bay  was  followed  by  an  hour's  journey  on 
a  boat  crowded  with  passengers  bound  for  Rothesay.  It 
was  now  the  last  day  of  June,  and  those  who  had  rented 
coast  houses  for  the  following  month  were  flocking  down 
from  Glasgow  and  other  Clydeside  industrial  centres.  In 
the  midst  of  the  crowd  of  gaily  dressed  trippers  all  the 
members  of  the  squad  felt  sensitive  and  shy  and  stood 
huddled  awkwardly  together  on  deck ;  all  but  Micky's  Jim 
and  the  strange  men  and  women,  who  paraded  up  and 
down  the  deck,  careless  of  the  eyes  that  were  fixed  upon 
them.  Old  Maire  a  Glan  was  praying,  her  rosary  hidden 
under  her  shawl ;  Dermod  Flynn  was  looking  over  the  rail 
into  the  water,  his  main  interest  in  turning  away  being  to 
keep  the  naked  knee  that  peeped  through  his  torn  trousers 
hidden  from  the  sight  of  the  elegantly  dressed  trippers. 
Norah  envied  the  young  girls  who  chattered  noisily  to  and 
fro,  envied  them  their  fine  hats  and  brave  dresses,  their 
elegant  shoes  and  the  wonderful  sparkling  things  that  dec- 
orated their  necks  and  wrists.  What  a  splendid  vision  for 
the  girl's  eyes !  the  hot  sun  overhead  in  a  sky  of  blue,  the 
water  glancing  brightly  as  the  boat  cut  through  it ;  the  fair 
women,  the  well-dressed  men,  the  band  playing  on  deck, 
the  glitter,  the  charm  and  the  happiness !  The  girl  could 
hardly  realise  that  such  beauty  existed,  though  once  she 
had  seen  a  picture  of  a  scene  something  like  this  in  one  of 
the  books  which  Fergus  used  to  read  at  home.  Poor  girl ! 
the  water  was  still  running  down  her  stockings,  her 
clothes  were  ragged  and  dirty,  and  the  boy,  her  youthful 
lover,  was  hiding  his  naked  knee  by  turning  to  the  rail ! 


"Beyond  the  Water"  141 

Opposite  the  crowd  in  which  Norah  stood,  a  group  of 
five  persons — father,  mother  and  their  children,  a  son  and 
two  daughters — were  sitting  on  camp-stools.  The  man, 
bubble-bellied  and  short,  had  taken  off  his  hat,  and  in  the 
sunlight  beads  of  sweat  glittered  on  his  bald  head  like 
crystals  in  a  white  limestone  facing.  His  wife,  a  plump, 
good-looking  woman,  who  seemed  full  of  a  haughty  self- 
esteem,  gazed  critically  through  a  lorgnette  on  the  un- 
kempt workers  and  sniffed  contemptuously  as  if  some- 
thing had  displeased  her  when  her  examinations  came  to 
an  end.  The  three  little  things  regarded  them  wonderingly 
for  a  moment  and  afterwards  began  to  ply  first  the  father 
and  then  the  mother  with  questions  about  the  strange  folk 
who  were  aboard  the  boat.  But  the  parents,  finding  that 
the  children  were  speaking  too  loudly,  bade  them  be  silent, 
and  the  little  ones,  getting  no  answer  to  their  questions, 
began  to  puzzle  over  this  and  wonder  who  and  what  were 
the  queer,  ragged  people  sitting  opposite. 

The  girls,  taking  into  account  the  contemptuous  stare 
which  their  mother  fixed  on  the  members  of  the  squad, 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  beings  who  were  dressed 
so  differently  from  themselves  were  really  other  species  of 
men  and  women  altogether  and  were  far  inferior  to  those 
who  wore  starched  collars  and  gold  ornaments. 

The  boy,  an  undersized  little  fellow  with  sharp,  twin- 
kling eyes,  looked  at  his  father  when  putting  his  questions, 
but  the  old  man  pulled  a  paper — The  Christian  Guide — 
from  his  pocket  and,  burying  himself  in  it,  took  no  notice 
of  the  youngster's  queries. 

The  boy  solved  the  question  for  himself  in  the  curious 
incomplete  way  which  is  peculiar  to  a  child. 

"I  don't  know  who  they  are,"  he  said,  "but  I'd  like  to 
play  with  them — that  old  lady  who's  moving  something 
under  her  shawl  and  speakin'  to  herself,  with  the  nice 


142  The  Rat-Pit 

young  lady,  with  the  man  with  the  hump  and  the  fiddle ; 
with  every  one  of  them." 

Gourock  Ellen  was  speaking  to  Micky's  Jim. 

"Have  ye  ever  slept  under  a  bridge  with  the  wind 
chillin'  ye  to  the  bone?"  she  asked. 

"No.    Why?" 

"That's  where  I  slept  last  night,"  said  Ellen  fiercely. 
"Isn't  that  a  pretty  dress  that  that  woman  has,  Jim?" 

"And  Annie?"  Jim  asked,  putting  a  match  to  the 
eternal  pipe. 

"She  slept  along  wi'  me,"  Ellen  replied.  "Blood  is 
warm  even  when  it  runs  thin." 

"If  ye  had  the  price  of  that  lady's  dress,  ye'd  not  have 
to  sleep  .out  for  a  week  of  Sundays,"  said  Jim,  pointing 
to  the  woman  with  the  lorgnette.  "See  her  brats  too ! 
Look  how  they're  glowerin'  at  Norah  Ryan !" 

"The  children  are  very  pretty,"  said  the  woman,  and  a 
slight  touch  of  regret  softened  her  harsh  voice.  Perhaps 
for  the  moment  she  longed  for  the  children  which  might 
have  been  hers  if  all  had  gone  well.  "Norah  Ryan  is  a 
very  soncy  wench,  isn't  she,  Jim?"  she  went  on.  "What 
is  the  bald  man  readin'?" 

"Christian  Guide,"  said  Jim,  who  spent  a  whole  year 
at  school  and  who  could  read  a  little. 

"I  ken  him  well,"  said  Ellen,  assuming  a  knowing  look 
and  winking  slightly.  "It  was  years  ago,  he  was  young — 
and  ye  ken  yerself." 

"Phew !"  Jim  whistled,  taking  the  pipe  from  his  mouth 
and  lowering  the  left  eyelid.  "He  was  one  of  them  sort? 
.  .  .  Christian  Guide,  indeed !  .  .  .  A  decent  man,  now,  I 
suppose,  and  would  hardly  pass  a  word  with  ye !" 

"I'm  not  as  good  lookin'  as  I  was." 

"If  ye  told  old  baldhead's  wife  what  ye  told  me  what 
would  she  say?" 


"Beyond  the  Water"  143 

"Oh !  I  wadna  dae  that,  Jim.  He  always  paid  on  the 
nail." 

"Christian  Guide,"  sniggered  Jim,  hurrying  to  the  rail 
and  spitting  into  the  water. 

"There  are  some  great  dresses  on  those  people,"  said 
Maire  a  Glan,  nipping  Dermod  Flynn  on  the  thigh  with 
her  finger  and  thumb.  "See  that  woman  sittin'  there  with 
the  bald-headed  man.  Her  dress  is  a  good  one.  All  the 
money  that  ye  earned  for  two  whole  years  in  Tyrone 
would  hardly  put  flounces  on  it;  wouldn't  flounce  it,  as 
the  man  said." 

"Maybe  not,"  said  Dermod,  turning  round  slightly,  but 
still  standing  in  such  a  way  that  his  bare  knee  was  con- 
cealed from  everybody  on  board. 

"It's  a  great  dress,  a  grand  dress  and  a  dress  for  a 
queen,"  Maire  a  Glan  went  on.  "Look  at  the  difference 
between  it  and  the  dress  that  Gourock  Ellen  is  wearin'  1" 

"Just  so,"  said  Dermod,  peeping  at  the  exposed  knee- 
cap. "Could  ye  give  me  a  needle  and  thread  this  night, 
Maire  a  Glan  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  could,  indeed,  Dermod,"  said  the  old  woman.  "That 
wife  of  the  bald-headed  man  is  a  fine  soncy-lookin' 
stump  of  a  woman." 

"Is  she  better-lookin'  than  Gourock  Ellen?"  asked 
Dermod  with  a  laugh. 

"Ye  are  droll,  Dermod,"  said  Maire  a  Glan,  nipping 
the  boy's  thigh  again.  "D'ye  know  where  Gourock  Ellen 
slept  last  night?  Under  a  cold  bridge  with  the  winds  of 
heaven  whistlin'  through  the  eye  of  it." 

"Could  she  not  have  gone  into  some  house?" 

"House,  child  ?    Ye  are  not  in  Ireland  here !" 

"When  a  poor  man  comes  to  our  house  at  night,  he 
always  gets  a  bed  till  the  mornin',"  said  Norah  Ryan,  who 
was  listening  to  the  conversation.  "And  a  bit  and  sup 
as  well!" 


144  The  Rat-Pit 

"It's  only  God  and  the  poor  who  help  the  poor,"  said 
the  old  woman.  "And  here's  the  rain  comin'  again,  as 
the  man  said.  It  will  be  a  bad  day  this  to  plough  on  our 
knees  through  the  wet  fields,  bad  luck  be  with  them !" 


in 

A  FARMER  with  a  bulbous  nose  and  red  whiskers  met 
-tV.  the  squad  on  Rothesay  pier.  He  wore  a  black  jacket 
which,  being  too  narrow  round  the  shoulders,  had  split 
open  half  way  down  the  back,  a  corduroy  waistcoat,  very 
tight  trousers,  patched  at  the  knees  and  caked  brown  with 
clotted  earth.  This  man  was  seated  on  the  sideboard  of 
a  large  waggon,  removing  the  dirt  from  his  clothes  with  a 
heavy,  double-bladed  clasp-knife. 

"Good-day,"  said  Micky's  Jim,  coming  off  the  boat  and 
stepping  up  to  the  man  on  the  waggon. 

"Good-day,"  answered  the  man  without  lifting  his  head 
or  looking  at  the  speaker. 

"Will  ye  take  the  waggon  nearer  the  boat,  or  will  we 
carry  up  the  bundles  to  here  ?"  asked  Jim,  blowing  a  puff 
of  white  smoke  into  the  air. 

"Carry  them  up,  of  course,"  said  the  farmer,  still  busy 
with  his  clasp-knife. 

Jim  set  his  squad  to  work,  and  soon  the  waggon  was 
loaded  with  bundles  of  clothes,  frying-pans,  tea-caddies, 
tins,  bowls,  and  other  articles  necessary  for  the  workers 
during  the  coming  months.  In  addition  to  the  stores 
taken  from  Ireland  by  the  potato-diggers  the  merchant 
supplied  them  with  blankets,  an  open  stove,  and  a  pot 
for  boiling  potatoes.  It  was  now  raining  heavily;  the 
drops  splashed  loudly  on  the  streets,  ran  down  the  faces 
and  soaked  through  the  clothes  of  the  workers.  The  rain 
struck  heavily  against  the  waggon ;  a  hot  steam  rose  from 


"Beyond  the  Water"  145 

the  withers  of  the  cart-horse;  the  pier  was  almost  de- 
serted and  everything  looked  lonesome  and  gloomy. 

So  far  the  farmer  had  taken  very  little  notice  of  any- 
body ;  but  now,  having  observed  Norah  Ryan,  he  shouted : 
"Ye  have  a  fine  leg,  lassie!"  and  afterwards,  while  the 
cart  was  being  loaded,  he  kept  repeating  this  phrase  and 
chuckling  deep  down  in  his  throat.  Whenever  he  made 
the  remark  he  looked  at  the  girl,  and  Norah  felt  uncom- 
fortable and  blushed  every  time  he  spoke. 

Dermod  Flynn,  who  had  taken  a  sudden  dislike  to  the 
man  with  the  bulbous  nose,  now  felt  sorry  for  Norah  and 
angry  with  the  man.  At  last,  unable  to  restrain  his  pas- 
sion any  longer,  he  stepped  up  to  the  side  of  the  waggon 
and  looked  straight  in  the  face  of  the  farmer,  who  was 
packing  the  blankets  in  one  corner  of  the  vehicle,  and 
shouted :  "Here,  Red  Nose,  don't  try  and  make  fun  of 
yer  betters !"  The  farmer  straightened  himself  up,  rested 
his  thumb  on  his  jaw  and  pulled  a  long  black  finger 
through  his  beard. 

"All  right,"  he  said  at  last,  and  did  not  speak  another 
word  to  anybody  else  that  day. 

Dermod,  who  had  looked  for  an  outburst,  felt  fright- 
ened when  the  farmer  became  silent. 

"Jim,  what's  wrong  with  that  man?"  he  asked  his 
ganger  when  the  cart  started  on  its  journey  home  with 
the  farmer  sitting  in  front,  waving  his  whip  vigorously, 
but  refraining  from  hitting  the  horse. 

"He's  mad,"  said  Jim  in  a  whisper. 

"Mad?" 

"As  a  March  hare,  as  an  Epiphany  cock,  as  a —  He's 
very  mad,  and  was  in  the  madhouse  last  year  when  we 
were  digging  on  the  farm.  It  takes  very  little  to  set  him 
off.  Maybe  he's  goin'  mad  now ;  one  never  knows." 

"It  was  very  good  of  you  to  stand  up  for  me,"  said 
Norah  to  Dermod  about  an  hour  later,  when  the  party 


146  The  Rat-Pit 

came  in  sight  of  the  farmhouse.  "Ye  have  the  kind 
heart,  and  that  farmer  isn't  a  nice  man.  I  don't  like  the 
looks  of  him!" 

"He's  mad " 

"Mother  of  God !" 

" as  an  Epiphany  cock!  He  was  in  the  madhouse 

last  year." 

"Maybe  he'll  do  ye  some  harm  one  day !" 

"Will  he?"  asked  Dermod,  squaring  his  shoulders  and 
instinctively  tightening  his  fists.  Somehow  he  felt  won- 
derfully elated  since  he  had  spoken  to  the  farmer  on  the 
waggon. 


CHAPTER   XV 

DRUDGERY 


NEW  potatoes  were  urgently  needed  and  the  po- 
tato merchant  told  Jim  to  get  as  many  as  pos- 
sible dug  on  the  first  afternoon.  No  sooner 
had  the  squad  come  to  the  farmhouse  than  they  were 
shown  out  to  the  fields  where  the  green  shaws,  heavy 
with  rain,  lay  in  matted  clusters  across  the  drills.  Every 
step  taken  relieved  the  green  vegetable  matter  of  an 
enormous  amount  of  water,  which  splashed  all  over  the 
workers  as  they  stumbled  along  to  their  toil. 

Work  started.  The  men  threw  out  the  potatoes  with 
short  three-pronged  graips;  the  women  girt  bags  round 
their  waists,  went  down  on  their  knees  and  followed  the 
diggers,  picking  up  the  potatoes  which  they  threw  out. 
Two  basin-shaped  wicker  baskets  without  handles  were 
supplied  to  each  woman ;  one  basket  for  the  good  potatoes 
and  the  other  for  "brock,"  pig-food. 

"It's  the  devil's  job,  as  the  man  said,"  old  Maire  a  Glan 
remarked  as  she  furrowed  her  way  through  the  slushy 
earth.  "What  d'ye  think  of  it,  Judy  Parrel?"  But 
Judy,  struggling  with  a  potato  stem,  did  not  deign  to 
answer. 

Maire  was  a  hard  worker :  and  it  was  her  boast  that  she 
never  had  had  a  day's  illness  in  her  life.  The  story  had 
got  abroad  that  she  never  missed  a  stitch  in  a  stocking 
while  giving  birth  to  twins,  and  the  woman  never  con- 


148  The  Rat-Pit 

tradicted  the  story.  She  gathered  after  Eamon  Doherty's 
"graip" ;  old  Eamon  with  a  head  rising  to  a  point  almost 
and  a  very  short  temper. 

Biddy  Wor,  the  mother  of  seven  children,  "all  gone 
now  to  all  the  seven  ends  of  the  world,"  as  she  often 
pathetically  remarked,  gathered  the  potatoes  that  Murtagh 
Gallagher  threw  out.  Biddy's  hair  was  as  white  as  snow, 
except  on  her  chin,  where  a  dozen  or  more  black  hairs 
stood  out  as  stiffly  as  if  they  were  starched. 

Owen  Kelly,  another  of  the  diggers,  was  very  miserly 
and  was  eternally  complaining  of  a  pain  in  the  back. 
Micky's  Jim  assured  him  that  a  wife  was  the  best  cure 
in  the  world  for  a  sore  back.  But  Owen,  skinflint  that  he 
was,  considered  a  wife  very  costly  property  and  preferred 
to  live  without  one.  He  dug  for  Judy  Farrel,  the  stunted 
little  creature  with  the  cough.  She  was  a  very  quiet  little 
woman,  Judy,  had  very  little  to  say  and,  when  speaking, 
spoke  as  if  her  mouth  was  full  of  something.  When 
pulling  the  heavy  baskets,  weighted  with  the  wet  clay, 
she  moaned  constantly  like  a  child  in  pain. 

Two  sisters  worked  in  the  squad,  Dora  and  Bridget 
Doherty,  cheery  girls,  who  spoke  a  lot,  laughed  easily,  and 
who  were  similar  in  appearance  and  very  ugly.  Dora 
worked  with  Connel  Dinchy,  son  of  Oiney  Dinchy,  an  eel- 
stomached  youth  over  six  foot  in  height  and  barely  meas- 
uring thirty-four  inches  round  the  chest.  He  was  a  quiet, 
inoffensive  fellow,  who  laughed  down  in  his  throat,  and 
every  fortnight  he  sent  all  his  wages  home  to  his  parents. 
Bridget  Doherty  gathered  potatoes  for  one  of  the  strange 
men.  Both  girls  were  blood  relations  of  Murtagh  Gal- 
lagher. The  other  strange  man  worked  in  conjunction 
with  Gourock  Ellen ;  Norah  Ryan  gathered  for  Willie  the 
Duck ;  and  Ellen's  companion,  who  was  known  as  Annie 
— simply  Annie — crawled  in  the  clay  after  Thady  Scan- 
Ion,  a  first  cousin  of  Micky's  Jim.  When  the  baskets 


Drudgery  149 

were  full,  Dermod  Flynn  emptied  the  potatoes  into  large 
barrels  supplied  for  the  purpose. 

The  women  worked  hard,  trying  to  keep  themselves 
warm.  Norah  Ryan  became  weary  very  soon.  The  rain 
formed  into  a  little  pond  in  the  hollow  of  her  dress  where 
it  covered  the  calves  of  her  legs.  Seeing  that  the  rest  of 
the  women  were  rising  from  time  to  time  and  shaking 
the  water  off  their  clothes,  she  followed  their  example, 
and  when  standing,  a  slight  dizziness  caused  her  to  reel 
unsteadily  and  she  almost  overbalanced  and  fell.  She 
went  down  on  her  knees  hurriedly,  as  she  did  not  want 
Micky's  Jim  to  see  her  tottering.  If  this  was  noticed 
he  might  think  her  unfit  for  the  job.  For  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon  she  crawled  steadily,  fearing  to  rise,  and  won- 
dered how  Gourock  Ellen,  who  was  giving  voice  to  a  loose 
and  humorous  song,  could  sing  on  such  a  day.  What 
troubled  Norah  most  were  the  sharp  pebbles  that  came  in 
contact  with  her  knees  as  she  dragged  herself  along.  They 
seemed  to  pierce  through  rags  and  flesh  at  each  move- 
ment, and  at  times  she  could  hardly  refrain  from  crying 
aloud  on  account  of  the  pain.  Before  night,  and  when 
she  knew  that  her  knees  were  bleeding,  she  had  become 
almost  indifferent  to  bodily  discomforts. 

All  the  time  she  was  filled  with  an  insatiable  longing 
for  home.  The  farm  looked  out  on  the  Clyde — the  river 
was  a  grey  blur  seen  through  the  driving  rain,  and  a 
boat  passing  by  attracted  her  attention. 

"Is  it  an  Irish  boat?"  she  asked  Willie  the  Duck, "who 
was  whistling  softly  to  himself. 

"Aye,  sure,"  answered  Willie  without  raising  his  head. 

"I  wish  that  I  was  goin'  home  in  it,"  she  said  plain- 
tively. 

"Ireland's  much  better  than  this  dirty  country,"  said 
Maire  a  Glan,  speaking  loud  enough  for  the  Scotchwoman 
Annie  to  hear  her. 


150  The  Rat-Pit 

ii 

WHEN  six  o'clock  came  round  Jim  pulled  out  his 
watch,  looked  at  it  severely  for  a  moment  and 
shouted :  "Down  graips  and  run  home  to  yer  warm 
supper !" 

"Home!"  repeated  Maire  a  Glan,  rising  awkwardly  to 
her  knees.  "Mother  of  Jesus ;  it  is  a  home !  An  old  byre 
and  no  less,  as  the  man  said.  Shame  be  on  ye,  Micky's 
Jim!" 

"We  have  no  grub  and  no  siller,"  said  Gourock  Ellen, 
rising  briskly  and  loosing  the  claycoated  sack  from 
around  her  waist.  "I'm  up  to  my  thighs  in  clabber," 
she  added. 

"We'll  not  let  ye  starve  as  long  as  there's  a  bit  at  all 
goin',"  said  Micky's  Jim. 

"We'd  be  pigs  if  we  ate  all  ourselves  when  other 
people  have  nothin',"  remarked  Maire  a  Glan. 

When  the  squad  went  back  to  the  farm  a  ploughman, 
a  flat-footed,  surly  fellow  with  a  hare-lip,  showed  them 
their  quarters  in  the  steading.  "First  I'll  show  ye  where 
ye're  to  roost,"  said  the  man,  and  led  the  way  into  an 
evil-smelling  byre,  the  roof  of  which  was  covered  with 
cobwebs,  the  floor  with  dung.  A  young  fellow,  with  a 
cigarette  in  his  mouth,  was  throwing  the  manure  through 
a  trap-door  into  a  vault  underneath.  On  both  sides  of 
the  sink,  which  ran  up  the  middle,  was  a  row  of  stalls, 
each  stall  containing  two  iron  stanchions  to  which  chains 
used  for  tying  cattle  were  fastened. 

"No  need  to  tie  any  of  ye  to  the  chains,  is  there?" 
asked  the  man  with  the  hare-lip,  laughing  loudly.  "When 
ye  go  to  bed  at  night,  close  the  trap-door,"  he  continued. 
"It  will  keep  the  smell  of  the  midden  away  from  you !" 

"Aye,  sure,"  said  Willie  the  Duck. 


Drudgery  151 

"Oh !  ye're  here  again,  are  ye  ?"  asked  the  ploughman. 
"Have  ye  got  the  music  murderer  with  ye?  This  way 
to  see  where  yer  eatin'  room  is,"  said  the  man,  without 
waiting  to  hear  Willie  the  Duck's  answer  to  his  question. 

The  byre  was  built  on  the  shoulder  of  a  hillock;  the 
midden  was  situated  in  a  grotto  hollowed  underneath. 
Behind  the  dung-hill,  in  the  grotto,  the  three-legged  stove 
was  standing,  and  already  a  fire  which  old  Eamon 
Doherty  had  kindled  was  sparkling  merrily. 

"Watch  yersel' !"  shouted  the  ploughman  to  Dermod 
Flynn,  who  was  crossing  the  dung-hill  on  the  way  towards 
the  fire.  "That  young  rascal  above  will  throw  down  a 
graipful  of  dung  on  yer  head  if  ye're  not  careful." 

Maire  a  Glan  filled  the  pot  with  clean  white  potatoes 
and  placed  them  over  the  blaze.  The  ploughman  sat 
down  on  an  upended  box  and  lit  his  pipe;  Micky's  Jim 
took  the  squad  back  to  the  byre,  which  was  now  fairly 
clean,  and  proceeded  to  make  bunks  for  the  night.  Four 
or  five  level  boxes  were  placed  on  the  floor  of  each  stall, 
a  pile  of  hay  was  scattered  about  on  top,  and  over  this 
was  spread  two  or  three  bags  sewn  together  in  the  form 
of  a  sheet;  sacks  filled  with  straw  served  as  pillows, 
a  single  blanket  was  given  to  each  person,  and  two  of 
the  party  had  to  sleep  in  each  stall. 

"Who's  goin'  to  sleep  with  me?"  asked  Micky's  Jim. 

"I  will,"  said  Murtagh  Gallagher. 

"Ye  snore  like  a  pig !" 

"What  about  me?"  asked  Owen  Kelly. 

"Ye  kick  like  a  colt." 

"Will  I  do?"  asked  Willie  the  Duck. 

"Ye  do !"  cried  Micky's  Jim,  "ye  that  was  chased  out 
of  the  graveyard  with  a  squad  of  worms.  None  of  ye 
will  sleep  with  me;  Dermod  Flynn  is  the  man  I  want. 
Help  me  to  make  the  bed,  Dermod  Flynn,"  he  said  to  the 
youth  who  was  standing  beside  him. 


152  The  Rat-Pit 

"It's  a  fine  place,  this,"  said  Gourock  Ellen  as  she 
spread  a  pile  of  hay  over  the  boxes  in  the  stalls.  "A  gey 
guid  place!" 

"D'ye  know  who  slept  in  that  stall  last  night?"  asked 
Jim. 

"A  heifer  like  mysel'  maybe,"  said  Ellen.  "And  indeed 
it  had  a  muckle  better  place  than  I  had  under  the  bridge." 

"The  potatoes  are  nearly  ready,"  shouted  Maire  a  Glan, 
sticking  her  wrinkled  head  round  the  corner  of  the  door. 

There  was  a  hurried  rush  down  to  the  midden.  Boxes 
were  upended  to  serve  as  seats,  the  maid-servant  at  the 
farm  came  out  in  brattie,*  shorgun,t  and  brogues,  and 
sold  milk  at  a  penny  a  pint  to  the  diggers.  All,  with  the 
exception  of  Annie,  Ellen,  and  Owen  Kelly,  bought  a 
pennyworth;  Micky's  Jim  bought  a  pennyworth  for 
Ellen,  Maire  a  Glan  shared  her  milk  with  Annie,  and 
Owen  Kelly  bought  only  a  halfpennyworth,  half  of  which 
he  kept  for  his  breakfast  on  the  following  morning. 

The  potatoes  were  not  ready  yet;  the  water  bubbled 
and  spluttered  in  the  pot  and  shot  out  in  little  short  spurts 
on  every  side.  Ellen  complained  of  her  legs;  they  had 
been  horribly  gashed  during  the  day  and  were  now  terri- 
bly sore.  She  lifted  up  her  clothes  as  far  as  her  thighs 
and  rubbed  a  wet  cloth  over  the  wounds.  Micky's  Jim 
tittered;  Dermod  Flynn  blushed,  turned  away  his  head 
and  looked  at  Norah  Ryan.  Ellen  noticed  this  and,  smil- 
ing sarcastically,  began  to  hum : 

"When  I  was  a  wee  thing  and  lived  wi'  my  granny, 
Oh !  it's  many  a  caution  my  granny  gied  me ; 
She  said :    'Now,  be  wise  and  beware  of  the  boys, 
And  don't  let  yer  petticoats  over  yer  knee !' " 

*  Brattie,  an  apron  made  of  coarse  cloth. 

t  Shorgun,  short  gown.  The  uniform  of  the  female  farm  ser- 
vant :  the  sleeves  of  the  blouse  reach  the  elbows,  the  hem  of  the 
skirt  covers  the  knees. 


Drudgery  153 

As  she  finished  the  song,  Ellen  winked  at  Micky's  Jim  and 
Jim  winked  back.  Then  she  hit  her  thigh  with  her  hand 
and  shouted:  "Not  a  bad  leg  that  for  an  old  one,  is 
it?" 

The  potatoes  were  now  emptied  into  a  wicker  basket, 
the  water  running  through  the  bottom  into  the  midden. 
The  men  and  women  sat  round  the  basket,  their  little 
tins  of  milk  in  their  hands,  and  proceeded  to  eat  their 
supper.  The  potato  was  held  in  the  left  hand,  and  stripped 
of  its  jacket  with  the  nail  of  the  right  thumb.  Gourock 
Ellen  used  a  knife  when  peeling,  Willie  the  Duck  ate 
potato,  pelt  and  all. 

While  they  were  sitting  an  old,  wrinkled,  and  crooked 
man  came  across  the  top  of  the  dung-hill,  sinking  into  it 
almost  up  to  his  knees  and  approached  the  fire.  His 
clothes  were  held  on  by  strings,  he  wore  a  pair  of  boots 
differing  one  from  the  other  in  size,  shape,  and  colour. 
Indeed  they  were  almost  without  shape,  and  the  old  man's 
toes,  pink,  with  black  nails,  showed  through  the  uppers. 

Gourock  Ellen  handed  him  three  large  potatoes  from 
the  basket. 

"God  bless  ye,  for  it's  yerself  that  has  the  kindly 
heart,  decent  woman,"  said  the  old  fellow  in  a  feeble 
voice,  and  he  began  to  eat  his  potatoes  hurriedly  like  a 
dog.  Dermod  handed  him  part  of  a  tin  of  milk  and 
blushed  at  the  profuse  thanks  of  the  stranger. 

"It's  a  fine  warm  place  that  ye  are  inside  of  this  night," 
said  the  old  fellow  when  he  had  finished  his  meal. 

"It's  a  rotten  place,"  said  Dermod  Flynn. 

"It's  better  nor  lyin'  under  a  hedge,"  answered  the  old 
man. 

"Or  under  a  bridge,"  Gourock  Ellen  remarked,  lifting 
her  dress  again;  then,  as  if  some  modest  thought  had 
struck  her,  dropping  it  suddenly. 

"Why  do  ye  lie  under  a  hedge?"  Dermod  asked,  and 


154  The  Rat-Pit 

the  old  man  thereupon  gave  a  rambling  account  of  his 
misfortunes,  which  included  a  sore  back  and  inability 
to  labour  along  with  sound  men.  He  had  come  from 
Mayo  years  ago  and  had  worked  at  many  a  hard  job 
since  then,  both  in  England  and  Scotland.  Now  that  he 
was  a  homeless  old  man  nobody  at  all  wanted  him. 

When  the  party  went  up  to  the  byre  he  stretched  out 
his  old  thin  limbs  by  the  fire  and  fell  into  the  easy  slum- 
ber of  old  age.  Suddenly  he  awoke  with  a  start  to  find 
the  fire  still  burning  brightly  and  a  beautiful  girl  with 
long  hair  flung  over  her  shoulders  looking  at  him.  It 
was  Norah  Ryan;  the  old  man  thought  for  a  moment 
that  he  was  looking  at  an  angel. 

"God  be  good  to  me !"  he  cried,  crossing  himself ;  "but 
who  is  yerself?"  Then  as  recollection  brought  him  a 
face  seen  at  the  fire,  he  exclaimed:  "Arrah,  sure  it's 
yerself  that  is  the  colleen  I  was  after  seein'  sittin'  here 
a  minute  ago.  Now,  isn't  it  a  good  cheery  fire?" 

"Have  ye  any  home  to  go  to?"  asked  Norah. 

"Never  a  home,"  said  the  old  man,  resting  one  elbow 
in  the  ashes.  "There  is  nothin'  but  the  rainy  roads  and 
the  hardships  for  a  man  like  me." 

"But  could  ye  not  get  inside  of  some  house  for  the 
night?" 

"God  look  on  yer  wit!"  said  the  old  fellow,  laughing 
feebly.  "Ye're  just  new  over,  I'll  warrant,  and  ye  haven't 
come  to  learn  that  they  have  forgotten  all  about  kindness 
in  this  country.  They  do  not  want  the  man  with  no  roof- 
tree  over  his  head  here.  They're  all  black  and  bitter 
Protestants." 

"So  I  heard  say." 

"Ye'll  be  one  of  the  right  sort,  I'll  go  bail." 

"I'm  a  Catholic." 

"Ah!   that's  it!   The  Catholics  are  the  best,  and  I'm 


Drudgery  155 

one  meself  just  as  ye  are,  girsha.  Have  ye  a  penny  to 
spare  for  one  of  yer  own  kind?" 

"Are  ye  goin'  back  to  Ireland  again?"  asked  Norah, 
drawing  the  weasel-skin  purse  from  the  pocket  of  her 
steaming  dress. 

"If  only  I  had  the  price  of  the  boat,  I'd  go  in  a  minute," 
said  the  man,  fixing  greedy  eyes  on  the  purse  which 
Norah  held  in  her  hand.  "But  I'm  very  poor,  and  mind 
ye  I'm  one  of  yer  own  sort.  Maybe  ye  have  a  sixpence 
to  spare,"  he  said. 

Norah  possessed  a  two-shilling  piece,  all  the  money  she 
had  in  the  world,  and  she  needed  it  badly  herself.  But 
the  desire  to  help  the  old  man  overmastered  her,  and  she 
handed  him  the  florin.  Followed  by  the  garrulous  thanks 
of  her  penniless  countryman  she  hurried  back  to  the  byre, 
feeling  in  some  curious  way  ashamed  of  her  kindness. 


in 

A  CANDLE  fixed  on  the  top  of  a  stanchion  threw  a 
•*•*•  dim  light  over  the  byre,  and  long  black  shadows 
danced  on  roof  and  wall.  A  strong,  unhealthy  odour  per- 
vaded the  whole  building ;  the  tap  at  one  end  was  running, 
and  as  the  screw  had  been  broken  the  water  could  not 
be  turned  off.  Micky's  Jim  sat  in  a  cattle-trough  sewing 
bags  together  with  a  packing  needle;  these  were  to  be 
used  as  a  quilt.  Dermod  Flynn,  who  was  undressing, 
slipped  beneath  the  blankets  with  his  trousers  still  on  as 
Norah  Ryan  came  in,  but  Willie  the  Duck,  stripped  to  the 
pelt,  stood  for  a  moment  laughing  stupidly,  the  guttering 
candle  lighting  up  his  narrow,  hairy  face  and  sunken 
chest. 

Old  Owen  Kelly  was  already  in  bed. 


156  The  Rat-Pit 

"This  place  is  a  lot  better  than  where  we  slept  last 
year,"  he  called  to  Micky's  Jim. 

"Where  did  ye  sleep  last  year  ?"  asked  Dermod  Flynn. 

"In  the  pig-sty,"  said  Jim.  "We  were  almost  eaten 
alive  by  the  blue  lice." 

The  women  undressed  in  the  shadow  at  the  far  end  of 
the  stalls,  and  from  time  to  time  Micky's  Jim  peeped 
round  the  corner.  When  the  women  looked  up  he  would 
shout  out :  "I  see  something,"  and  whistle  lightly  between 
the  thumb  and  middle  finger  of  his  right  hand.  The 
Irishwomen  undressed  under  the  blankets,  the  two  strange 
women,  careless  and  indifferent  to  the  jibes  of  Micky's 
Jim,  stripped  off  to  their  chemises  in  full  view  of  the 
occupants  of  the  byre.  Annie  and  Gourock  Ellen  had 
quarrelled  about  something ;  they  were  not  going  to  sleep 
together  that  night. 

"Ye  have  to  sleep  with  me,  lass,"  said  Gourock  Ellen 
to  Norah. 

"All  right,"  said  the  young  girl  quietly,  seeing  no  rea- 
son why  she  should  not  sleep  with  a  strange  woman.  As 
she  spoke  she  went  down  on  her  knees  to  say  her  prayers. 

"Say  one  prayer  for  me,  just  a  short  one,"  said  Ellen 
in  a  low  tone. 

"All  right,  decent  woman,"  answered  the  girl. 

"I'll  put  the  light  out  now,"  shouted  Micky's  Jim  after 
a  short  interval.  "The  women  will  not  be  ashamed  to  go 
on  takin'  off  their  clothes  now." 

The  light  went  out,  but  Jim  suddenly  relit  the  candle, 
and  the  guttering  blaze  again  flared  weakly  through  the 
gloom.  There  was  a  hurried  movement  of  naked  flesh 
in  the  women's  quarters  and  a  precipitate  scampering 
under  the  blankets. 

"That  was  a  mortal  sin,  Micky's  Jim,"  Norah  Ryan 
said  in  a  low  voice,  and  in  her  tones  there  was  a  suspicion 
of  tears. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

LITTLE  LOVES 


TO  Norah  Ryan  the  days  passed  by,  at  first  remorse- 
lessly slow,  burdened  with  longings  and  regrets, 
clogged  with  cares  and  sorrows  which  pressed 
heavily  on  her  young  heart.    Each  passing  day  was  very 
much  like  that  which  had  gone  before,  all  had  their 
homesickness  and  longings.     She  wanted  so  much  to  be 
back  in  her  own  home,  picking  cockles  from  the  Frosses 
strand  or  driving  the  cattle  into  the  shallow  water  when 
the  heat  of  summer  put  the  wild  madness  into  their  dry 
hooves. 

All  day  long  she  trailed  in  the  fields,  her  knees  sore,  and 
the  sharp,  flinty  pebbles  cutting  them  to  the  bone ;  and  at 
night  when  she  undressed  she  found  her  petticoats  and 
stockings  covered  with  blood.  Gourock  Ellen  showed  a 
great  interest  in  the  girl,  bathed  Norah's  knees  often,  and 
when  near  a  druggist's  bought  liniments  and  ointments 
which  she  applied  to  the  wounds.  Usually  the  sores, 
though  they  healed  a  little  during  the  night,  broke  afresh 
when  work  started  again  in  the  morning,  and  six  weeks 
went  by  before  the  girl  hardened  sufficiently  to  resist  the 
rough  pressure  of  the  stones  which  she  had  to  crawl  over 
when  at  her  work  in  the  fields.  Her  hands  also  troubled 
her  for  a  while;  they  became  hacked  and  swollen  and 
pained  her  intensely  when  she  washed  them  at  close  of 


158  The  Rat-Pit 

evening.  Gradually  these  physical  discomforts  passed 
away,  and  with  them  went  many  of  the  girl's  regrets  and 
much  of  her  homesickness.  True,  she  wished  to  be  back 
with  her  mother  again,  and  that  wish,  unable  to  be  grati- 
fied, caused  her  many  poignant  heartaches  which  she 
bravely  concealed  from  her  companions.  Every  Sunday 
afternoon  she  sat  down  and  wrote  a  long  letter  home, 
telling  her  mother  of  the  wonderful  land  across  the 
water  and  the  curious  things  which  were  to  be  seen 
there.  Her  mother,  not  being  able  to  read  or  write, 
answered  very  seldom,  and  her  letters  were  all  penned 
by  the  new  master  of  Glenmornan  schoolhouse. 

The  members  of  the  squad  lived  a  very  stirring  life, 
changing  almost  weekly  from  one  farm  to  another,  travel- 
ling on  fast  trains  and  wonderful  steamers.  But  in  the 
midst  of  all  this  excitement  Maire  a  Glan  never  forgot  to 
tell  her  beads,  Owen  Kelly  to  save  up  his  money,  Micky's 
Jim  to  swear  about  nothing  in  particular,  and  Norah  never 
forgot  to  speak  about  home  when  any  of  the  Frosses  peo- 
ple were  in  the  mood  to  listen.  Dermod  Flynn,  ever  eager 
to  hear  about  all  that  had  passed  in  his  two  years'  absence, 
was  a  ready  talker  on  matters  that  concerned  the  people 
of  Glenmornan  and  Frosses.  But  in  other  respects  he  was 
still  the  same  dreamy  youth  who  had  spent  the  greater 
part  of  his  time  at  school  in  gazing  out  of  the  window. 
Even  now  he  would  sometimes  forget  his  work  for  a  long 
while  to  gaze  at  a  worm  which  he  picked  up  from  the 
ground  and  held  between  his  finger  and  thumb.  When- 
ever Micky's  Jim  saw  this  he  would  assert  that  Flynn  was 
rapidly  going  mad.  Norah  herself  often  wished  that 
Dermod  would  not  take  such  an  interest  in  things  which, 
when  all  was  said  and  done,  were  useless  and  made  the 
boy  the  laughing-stock  of  the  whole  squad.  But  she  al- 
ways felt  sorry  for  him  when  the  rest  of  the  party  laughed 
at  his  oddities.  Why  should  she  care  if  everybody  in  the 


Little  Loves  159 

country  laughed  at  a  fool  who  took  a  great  interest  in 
common  worms  ?  she  often  asked  herself.  But  never  was 
the  girl  able  to  find  a  satisfactory  answer  to  this  question. 
Dermod  had  a  curious  habit  of  going  out  into  the  fields 
and  lying  down  on  the  green  sod  when  the  evening  was  a 
good  one  and  when  the  day's  work  was  done.  Norah 
noticed  this  and  often  wondered  what  he  did  and  thought 
of  when  by  himself.  The  youth  fascinated  the  girl  in  some 
strange  way;  this  fascination  she  could  not  explain  and 
dared  not  combat.  She  even  felt  afraid  of  him;  he 
thronged  into  her  mind,  banished  all  other  thoughts  and 
reigned  supreme  in  her  imagination.  Sometimes,  indeed, 
she  wished  that  he  were  gone  from  the  squad  altogether ; 
he  made  her  so  uncomfortable.  He  said  such  strange 
things,  too.  Once  he  remarked  that  there  was  no  God,  and 
Norah  knew  instinctively  that  he  meant  what  he  said ;  not 
like  Micky's  Jim,  who  often  said  that  there  was  no  Cre- 
ator, merely  with  the  object  of  startling  those  to  whom  he 
was  speaking.  If  Dermod  did  things  like  other  people,  if 
he  played  cards,  passed  jests,  she  would  not  fear  him  so 
much.  Even  now,  when  he  spoke  to  her  of  home,  there 
was  a  strange  intensity  in  his  voice  that  often  unnerved 
her. 

II 

ONE  evening  in  September  Dermod  Flynn  stole  "away 
from  the  fire  as  was  his  custom  and  sat  down  in  a 
field  near  the  sea,  where  he  was  speedily  buried  in  the 
quiet  isolation  of  his  own  thoughts.  Norah  Ryan  fol- 
lowed him;  why,  she  did  not  know.  Something  seemed 
to  compel  her  to  go  after  the  youth :  a  certain  wild  pleas- 
ure surged  through  her,  she  felt  as  if  she  could  run  and 
sing  out  to  the  light  airs  that  fanned  her  cheeks  as  she 
moved  along.  Presently,  looking  through  a  row  of  hazel 


160  The  Rat-Pit 

bushes  that  hemmed  the  farmhouse,  she  espied  him,  lying 
on  the  green  grass,  seemingly  lost  to  everything  and  gaz- 
ing upwards  into  the  blue  heavens  where  the  first  early 
star  was  flickering  faintly  through  the  soft  loom  of  the 
evening.  Below  him  the  Clyde  widened  out  to  the  sea 
and  a  few  black  boats  were  heaving  slowly  on  the  tide. 
As  if  under  the  spell  of  a  power  which  she  could  not 
resist,  Norah  Ryan  parted  the  boughs  of  the  hazel  copse 
and  stood  before  Dermod  Flynn. 

"Is  it  here,  Dermod,  that  ye  are,  lookin'  at  the  sea?" 
she  asked  involuntarily. 

"I  was  lookin'  at  the  star  above  me,"  he  replied. 

Norah  wore  a  soft  grey  tweed  dress  that  became  her 
well.  She  had  bought  it  in  Greenock  a  week  before,  and 
when  Dermod  looked  at  the  dress  with  a  critical  eye  she 
wondered  why  she  had  put  it  on.  But  his  look  turned  to 
one  of  admiration  when  his  eye  fell  on  the  sweet  face  of 
the  young  girl,  the  eyes  gentle  and  wistful,  the  white  neck 
and  the  pure  brow  half  hidden  by  the  brown  ruffled 
tresses.  Something  leapt  into  the  heart  of  the  young  man, 
a  thought  which  he  could  not  put  into  words  flashed 
through  his  mind,  held  him  tense  for  a  moment  and  then 
flitted  away. 

"Why  do  you  keep  watchin'  me  ?"  Norah  enquired. 

"I  don't  know,"  Dermod  answered,  lowering  his  eyes. 
"D'ye  mind  the  night  on  the  Derry  boat?"  he  asked. 
"All  that  night  when  you  were  asleep  I  had  your  hand  in 
mine." 

"I  mind  it  very  well,"  she  said,  and  a  slight  blush  stole 
into  her  cheeks.  They  clasped  hands,  the  girl's  fingers 
stole  over  Dermod's  and  their  eyes  met.  For  a  moment 
it  seemed  as  if  one  or  the  other  was  going  to  speak,  but  no 
voice  broke  the  stillness.  The  fear  had  now  gone  from 
Norah's  heart;  it  seemed  quite  natural  to  her  that  she 
should  be  there  clasping  the  hand  of  that  ragged  youth 


Little  Loves  161 

who  always  attracted  and  fascinated  her.  That  she 
should  desire  to  sit  beside  him,  to  press  his  hands  so  very 
tightly,  did  not  appear  strange  to  her  and  above  all  did 
not  appear  wrong.  Dermod  saw  in  her  eyes  a  childlike 
admiration,  a  look  half  a  child's  and  half  a  woman's.  A 
vague  longing,  something  which  he  could  not  comprehend 
and  which  caused  him  a  momentary  pang  of  fear,  rose 
in  his  heart.  What  he  had  to  be  afraid  of  he  did  not 
know,  as  he  knelt  there  in  spirit  before  the  most  holy 
sanctuary  in  the  world,  the  sanctuary  of  chaste  and  beau- 
tiful womanhood. 

Many  evenings  they  met  together  in  the  same  way; 
they  became  more  intimate,  more  friendly,  and  Norah 
found  that  her  fear  of  Dermod  was  gradually  passing 
away.  When  evenings  were  wet  they  sat  in  the  byre  of 
cart-shed,  where  the  fire  burned  brightly,  and  talked  about 
Glenmornan  and  the  people  at  home.  One  day  Micky's 
Jim  said  that  he  himself  had  once  a  notion  of  Norah 
Ryan.  When  Dermod  heard  this  he  flushed  hotly. 
Norah's  cheeks  got  very  red  and  Jim  laughed  loudly. 

"I  have  no  time  for  them  sort  of  capers  now,"  said  Jim. 
"Ye  can  have  her  all  to  yerself,  Dermod,  and  people  like 
yerselves  will  be  always  doin'  the  silly  thing,  indeed  ye 
will!" 


CHAPTER   XVII 

A  GAME  OF  CARDS 


MICKY'S  JIM  was  telling  the  story  of  a  fight  in 
which  he  had  taken  part  and  how  he  knocked 
down  a  man  twice  as  heavy  as  himself  with 
one  on  the  jaw.  Owen  Kelly,  Gourock  Ellen,  Dermod, 
and  Norah  were  the  listeners.  The  squad  had  just 
changed  quarters  from  a  farm  on  which  they  had  been 
engaged  to  the  one  on  which  they  were  now,  and  it  was 
here  that  they  were  going  to  end  the  season.  The  farm 
belonged  to  a  surly  old  man  named  Morrison,  a  short- 
tempered  fellow,  always  at  variance  with  the  squad, 
whom  he  did  not  like. 

Jim  was  telling  the  story  in  the  cart-shed.  A  blazing 
fire  lit  up  the  place,  shadows  danced  along  the  roof,  out- 
side a  slight  rain  was  falling  and  the  wind  blew  mourn- 
fully in  from  the  hayricks  that  stood  up  like  shrouded 
ghosts  in  the  gloomy  stack  yard.  Presently  a  man  en- 
tered, a  red-haired  fellow  with  a  limp  in  one  leg  and  a 
heavy  stick  in  his  hand.  He  was  a  stranger  to  Norah  and 
Dermod,  but  the  rest  of  the  squad  knew  him  well  and 
were  pleased  to  see  the  man  with  the  limp.  Owen  Kelly, 
however,  grunted  something  on  seeing  the  stranger,  and 
a  look,  certainly  not  of  pleasure,  passed  across  his  face. 

"How  are  ye,  Ginger  Dubbin?"  Micky's  Jim  shouted 
to  the  visitor.  "By  this  and  by  that  ye  look  well  on  it." 

162 


A  Game  of  Cards  163 

"The  bad  are  always  well  fed,"  said  Owen  Kelly  in  a 
low  voice. 

"Have  ye  the  devil's  prayer-book  with  ye,  Ginger?" 
asked  Micky's  Jim. 

"Here  it  is,"  said  the  man,  drawing  a  pack  of  cards 
from  his  pocket  and  running  his  hands  along  the  edge 
of  it. 

"We'll  have  a  bit  of  the  Gospel  of  Chance,"  said 
Murtagh  Gallagher. 

"It's  no  game  for  Christians,"  remarked  Owen  Kelly, 
picking  his  teeth  with  a  splinter  of  wood. 

"D'ye  know  why  Owen  Kelly  doesn't  like  Ginger  Dub- 
bin?" Gourock  Ellen  asked  Dermod  Flynn  in  a  whisper. 
"No  ?  Then  I'll  tell  ye,  but  never  let  dab  about  it.  Four 
years  ago  Ginger,  drunken  old  scamp  that  he  is,  came  here 
and  played  cards  with  Owen,  and  Owen  won  at  first,  three 
shillin's  in  all.  Then  he  began  to  lose  and  lost  half  a 
crown  of  the  money  that  he  had  won.  'My  God!'  said 
old  Owen,  and  he  was  nearly  greetin';  'My  God!  that  I 
have  ever  lived  to  see  this  day!'  He  has  never  played 
since  that.  D'ye  play,  Dermod?" 

"I  used  to  play  for  buttons  in  Ireland." 

"It's  a  bad  thing  they  are,  the  cards,"  said  Norah 
Ryan. 

"Turn  it  up  or  I'll  gie  ye  a  dunt  in  the  lug!"  Micky's 
Jim  was  shouting  to  Willie  the  Duck,  who  was  helping  to 
turn  the  body  of  a  disused  cart  upside  down. 

"Aye,  sure,"  said  Willie  the  Duck,  but  as  he  spoke  he 
fell  prostrate  on  his  face,  causing  all  who  were  watching 
him  to  burst  into  loud  peals  of  laughter. 

When  the  cart  was  laid  down  a  game  of  banker  com- 
menced and  most  of  the  squad  joined  in  the  game. 
Dermod  Flynn  watched  the  players  for  a  little  space; 
then  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Where  are  ye  goin'?"  Norah  asked. 


164  The  Rat-Pit 

"To  look  at  the  card-players." 

"Don't,  Dermod!" 

"Why?" 

"Maybe  ye'll  learn  to  play." 

"And  if  I  do?"  There  was  a  note  of  defiance  in  the 
boy's  voice,  and  it  was  evident  that  Norah's  remarks  had 
displeased  him. 

"Well,  do  as  you  like,"  said  the  girl  in  an  injured  tone. 
"But  mind  that  it's  a  sin  to  play  cards." 

Dermod  stretched  himself,  laughed  and  approached  the 
table.  Norah  felt  a  sudden  fear  overcome  her:  she 
wanted  him  back,  and  she  was  angry  with  the  cards — 
little  squares  of  cardboard — that  could  lure  Dermod  away 
from  her  side. 

He  bent  over  the  shoulder  of  Micky's  Jim,  who  was 
smoking  and  shouting  loudly.  All  the  players,  with  the 
exception  of  Ginger  Dubbin,  were  very  excited :  Ginger 
hummed  tunes  with  equal  gusto  whether  winning  or  los- 
ing. Most  of  the  players  used  pence,  but  a  few  pieces  of 
silver  glittered  on  the  table,  and  Micky's  Jim  had  changed 
a  sovereign.  Dermod  had  never  gambled,  although  he 
had  often  played  cards  before;  then  the  stakes  were 
merely  buttons,  that  was  not  gambling;  no  one  feels 
very  vexed  at  having  lost  a  button.  Something  thrilled 
Dermod  through  as  he  looked  at  the  coins  on  the  board ; 
the  two  pieces  of  silver  attracted  him  strongly.  He  had 
one  hand  deep  in  his  trousers'  pocket  closing  tightly  over 
the  money  in  his  possession.  How  exciting  it  would  be 
to  put  something  on  that  card;  he  was  certain  that  it 
would  win !  Dubbin  turned  up  the  card  which  Dermod 's 
imagination  pictured  to  be  a  good  one,  and  showed  an 
ace,  the  winning  card.  If  only  he  had  staked  a  penny 
on  it,  Dermod  thought!  He  sat  down  beside  Micky's 
Jim  and  gazed  across  the  board. 


A  Game  of  Cards  165 

"Another  cut — for  me,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  a 
trifle  husky.     "I'm  going  to  play." 
He  put  down  a  penny  and  won. 


H 


THE  farmer's  son  came  into  the  shed.  He  was  a 
strongly  built,  handsome  lad  of  twenty-one,  and  was 
employed  as  a  bank  clerk  in  Paisley.  It  was  now  Satur- 
day. He  always  returned  home  on  week-ends  and  spent 
Sunday  on  his  father's  farm.  Eamon  Doherty  was  very 
pleased  to  see  young  Morrison,  who  was  a  great  friend 
of  his,  and  sometimes,  when  the  squad  went  home  at  the 
end  of  the  year,  Eamon  stopped  with  Morrison  senior 
and  worked  over  the  winter  on  the  farm. 

The  squad  interested  young  Morrison.  "These  strange, 
half-savage  people  have  a  certain  fascination  for  me,"  he 
told  his  friends  in  town — young  men  and  women  with 
great  ideals  and  full  of  schemes  and  high  purposes  for  the 
reformation  of  the  human  race.  Morrison  belonged  to  a 
club,  famous  for  its  erudite  members,  one  of  whom  dis- 
covered a  grammatical  error  in  a  translation  of  Karl 
Marx's  Kapital  and  another  who  had  written  a  volume  of 
verses,  Songs  of  the  Day.  Young  Morrison  himself  was 
a  thinker,  a  moralist,  earnest  and  profound  in  his  own 
estimation.  Coming  into  contact  with  the  potato  diggers 
on  week-ends,  he  often  wondered  why  these  people  were 
treated  like  cattle  wherever  they  took  up  their  temporary 
abode.  Here,  on  his  father's  farm,  kindly  old  men,  lithe, 
active  youths  and  pure  and  comely  girls  were  housed  like 
beasts  of  burden.  The  young  man  often  felt  so  sorry  for 
them  that  he  almost  wept  for  his  own  tenderness. 

Before  entering  the  shed  on  this  evening  he  had  looked 
in  at  them  from  the  cover  of  the  darkness  outside.  He 


166  The  Rat-Pit 

noticed  the  fire  shining  on  their  faces,  saw  old  Maire  a 
Glan  telling  her  beads,  the  card-players  bent  over  the  cart, 
the  young  women  knitting,  and  the  two  harridans, 
Gourock  Ellen  and  Annie,  holding  out  their  hacked  hands 
to  the  blaze. 

The  gamblers  were  so  interested  in  their  game  that  they 
took  very  little  notice  of  the  young  man  when  he  entered 
the  shed;  even  Eamon  Doherty  who  was  playing  had 
scant  leisure  to  greet  the  new-comer.  Morrison  sat  down 
on  an  up-ended  box  beside  Gourock  Ellen,  who  was 
stretching  out  her  lean,  claw-like  fingers  to  the  fire, 

"Good-evening,  Ellen!"  he  cried  jovially,  for  he  knew 
the  woman,  and  sitting  down,  stretched  out  one  delicate 
hand,  on  the  middle  finger  of  which  a  ring  glittered,  to 
the  stove. 

"It  may  be  a  guid  e'en,  but  it's  gey  cold,"  said  Ellen. 

"There  are  many  new  faces  here,"  said  Morrison,  look- 
ing into  the  corner  where  Norah  Ryan  was  sitting,  sewing 
patches  on  her  working  dress.  The  girl  was  deep  in 
thought. 

"Why  has  Dermod  gone  away  and  left  me  for  them 
cards  ?"  she  asked  herself  and  for  a  while  sought  in  vain 
for  an  answer.  Then  when  it  came  she  thrust  it  away 
angrily  and  refused  to  give  it  credence,  although  the  an- 
swer came  from  the  depths  of  her  own  soul.  "He  cares 
more  for  the  cards  than  he  cares  for  me." 

She  looked  up  and  saw  the  glint  of  the  fire  on  the  ring 
which  the  visitor  wore,  and  noticed  that  he  was  looking 
at  her.  She  had  not  noticed  the  man  before.  Never  had 
such  a  well-dressed  person  visited  the  squad. 

"It's  Alec  Morrison,  the  farmer's  son,"  old  Maire  a 
Glan,  who  was  sitting  beside  the  girl,  whispered.  "He 
just  comes  in  here  like  one  of  ourselves,  as  the  man  said. 
Just  think  of  that  and  him  a  gentleman !" 

Norah  bowed  her  head,  for  Morrison's  eyes  were  fixed 


A  Game  of  Cards  167 

on  her  still.  Why  did  he  keep  staring  at  her?  she  asked 
herself  and  felt  very  uncomfortable,  but  not  displeased. 
And  how  that  ring  sparkled,  too !  It  must  have  cost  a 
great  amount  of  money. 

A  wave  of  tenderness  swept  across  Morrison  as  he 
looked  at  Norah.  "She's  too  good  for  this  sort  of  life," 
he  said  inwardly  as  he  noticed  her  white  brow,  and  the 
small  delicate  fingers  in  which  she  held  the  needle.  "It's 
criminal  to  condemn  a  girl  like  her  to  such  a  life.  The 
sanitary  authorities  will  not  give  my  father  permission  to 
house  his  cattle  in  the  stall  where  that  girl  has  now  to 
sleep.  That  maiden  to  sleep  there !  I,  a  man,  who  should 
be  able  to  bear  suffering  and  privation,  sleep  in  soft 
clothes  that  are  clean  and  comfortable,  and  she  has  to  lie 
in  rags,  in  straw,  in  a  place  that  is  not  good  enough  for 
cattle.  And  all  these  people  are  like  myself,  people  with 
souls,  feelings  and  passions.  .  .  ." 

"Have  you  just  come  to  this  country  for  the  first  time  ?" 
he  asked  Norah,  and  when  he  put  the  question  a  sense  of 
shame  surged  through  him. 

"The  first  time,"  answered  the  girl. 

"And  you'll  not  think  much  of  Scotland?"  he  said. 

"People  like  yerself  may  like  it,"  said  Maire  a  Glan; 
"but  as  for  us,  it's  beyont  talkin'  about.  ...  In  the  last 
farm  we  had  to  sleep  in  a  shed  that  was  full  of  rats. 
They  ate  our  bits  of  food,  aye,  and  our  very  clothes.  The 
floor  was  alive  with  wood-lice  and  worms.  .  .  .  The  night 
before  we  left  the  shed  was  flooded,  and  there  was  eigh- 
teen inches  of  water  on  the  floor.  We  had  to  rise  from 
our  beds  in  the  bare  pelt  and  stand  all  night  up  to  our 
knees  in  the  cold  water.  .  .  .  There's  Norah  Ryan  getting 
red  in  the  face  as  if  it  was  her  very  own  fault." 

"Norah!  What  a  pretty  name,"  said  the  young  man. 
"And  did  she  sleep  in  that  shed  ?" 


168  The  Rat-Pit 

"The  farmers  think  that  we're  pigs,"  said  Maire  a  Glan 
harshly.  "That's  why  they  treat  us  like  pigs." 

"It's  wrong,  very  wrong,"  said  the  young  man,  and  his 
eyes  were  still  fixed  on  Norah.  The  girl  wondered  why 
he  stared  at  her  in  such  a  manner.  He  was  handsome 
to  look  upon,  clean-skinned,  dark-eyed,  and  well-dressed. 
She  had  never  spoken  to  such  a  well-dressed  man  in  all 
her  life  before;  but  she  felt  frightened  at  something 
which  she  could  not  understand  and  wished  that  the  man 
was  gone.  An  idea  came  to  her  that  she  was  doing 
something  very  wrong,  and  with  this  idea  came  fear, 
fear  of  the  unknown. 

Gourock  Ellen,  elbows  on  knees,  her  hands  crossed 
over  her  breast  and  her  thumbs  propping  her  chin,  began 
to  tell  a  story  of  one  of  her  early  love  affairs ;  how  a  man 
would  not  pay  and  how  she  took  away  his  clothes  and 
vowed  to  send  him  out  naked  into  the  streets.  Morrison 
listened  attentively  and  Norah,  who  did  not  understand 
the  story  fully,  and  who  was  shocked  at  all  she  under- 
stood, wondered  why  the  farmer's  son  was  not  horrified 
at  this  episode  in  the  life  of  Ellen. 

About  ten  o'clock  he  rose  to  go  and  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment talking  to  Micky's  Jim  at  the  card-table.  Norah 
examined  him  attentively.  He  was  well  favoured  and 
vigorous,  and  he  spoke  so  nicely  and  quietly  too! 

"Dermod  Flynn  is  makin'  a  fortune,"  Jim  was  saying. 
Alec  Morrison  went  to  the  door;  there  he  stood  for  a 
moment  and  looked  back  into  the  shed.  Norah  glanced 
at  the  youth ;  their  eyes  met  and  both  felt  that  this  was 
something  which  they  desired. 

Morrison's  simplicity,  his  interest  in  the  squad  and  his 
kindly  remarks,  established  a  bond  of  sympathy  between 
himself  and  Norah ;  but  even  yet  she  could  not  under- 
stand why  such  a  well-dressed  youth  had  visited  the 
squalid  shed  in  which  the  squad  was  staying.  He  seemed 


A  Game  of  Cards  169 

out  of  place ;  he  could  not  feel  at  home  in  such  dirty  sur- 
roundings. And  he  had  gazed  so  earnestly  at  her :  in  his 
eyes  was  a  look  of  appeal,  of  entreaty.  It  seemed  to 
Norah  that  it  was  in  her  power  to  bestow  some  favour  on 
the  youth,  give  him  some  precious  gift  that  he  desired 
very  earnestly.  Filled  with  a  mixed  emotion  of  pleasure 
and  natural  modesty,  the  girl  wondered  if  all  that  had 
happened  was  real  and  if  it  had  any  significance  for  her. 

"The  way  he  looked  at  me !"  she  murmured  in  a  puz- 
zled voice.  "And  him  a  gentleman  talking  to  us  as  if  we 
were  of  his  own  kind !  He  must  be  very  learned.  And 
why  didn't  Dermod  Flynn  stay  with  me  here,  not  runnin' 
away  to  them  old  cards !" 

She  glanced  at  Dermod,  whose  face  was  flushed  and 
whose  fingers  trembled  nervously  as  he  placed  a  silver 
coin  down  on  the  gaming-table,  and  instinctively  it  was 
borne  to  her  that  something  black  and  ugly  had  crept  into 
the  purity  of  the  passion  which  attracted  her  towards  the 
Glenmornan  youth. 

"The  blame's  all  on  me,"  she  whispered,  hardly  realis- 
ing what  she  was  saying,  and  began  to  turn  over  in  her 
mind  every  incident  of  the  evening  from  the  time  when 
she  first  noticed  Alec  Morrison  sitting  by  the  fire  up  till 
the  present  moment. 

"Did  you  see  the  way  that  the  farmer's  son  was  watch- 
in'  ye,  Norah  Ryan  ?"  Maire  a  Glan  asked.  "His  two  eyes 
were  on  ye  all  the  time.  He'll  be  havin'  a  notion  of  ye." 

"That  he  will,"  said  Gourock  Ellen,  and  both  women 
laughed  loudly. 

"And  Maire  a  Glan,  the  decent  woman,  says  that," 
Norah  whispered  to  herself  and  blushed.  "And  them 
laughin'  as  if  there  was  nothing  wrong  in  it.  Then  there's 
no  harm  in  me  speakin'  to  the  farmer's  son." 

At  the  table  the  game  was  now  fast  and  furious.  None 
of  the  players  heard  the  women's  remarks. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

IN  THE  LANE 


SUNDAY  afternoon  of  a  week  later. 
Alec  Morrison  was  walking  along  a  sheltered 
lane  towards  the  house,  his  hands  deep  in  his 
trousers'  pockets,  a  cigarette  between  his  lips,  and  his 
mind  dwelling  on  several  things  which  had  taken  place 
the  week  before.  On  Sundays  he  liked  to  walk  alone 
when  there  was  nothing  extraneous  to  distract  his  mind, 
and  then  to  ponder  over  thoughts  that  thronged  his  brain 
from  time  to  time.  He  was  a  Progressive,  and  the  term, 
which  might  mean  anything  to  the  general  public,  to  Mor- 
rison meant  all  that  was  best  in  an  age  that,  to  him,  was 
extremely  reactionary  and  lacking  in  earnestness  of  pur- 
pose and  clarity  of  vision.  The  young  man  believed  that 
he,  himself,  realised  all  the  beauty  and  all  the  significance 
of  life  and  the  importance  of  the  task  allocated  in  it  to 
man.  He  also  imagined  that  he  possessed  unlimited  pow- 
ers and  that  in  the  advance  of  humanity  towards  per- 
fection he  was  destined  to  play  an  important  part.  Most 
young  men  of  sanguine  temperament,  who  read  a  little, 
paint  a  little,  and  write  a  little,  have  at  times  hallucina- 
tions of  this  kind.  The  young  man's  pet  idea  was  that 
he,  by  some  inscrutable  decree  of  Fate,  had  been  ap- 
pointed to  show  the  working  classes  the  road  towards  a 
better  life,  towards  enlightenment  and  prosperity. 

170 


In  the  Lane  171 

Up  till  very  recently  (he  was  now  twenty-one)  he  had 
taken  no  notice  of  the  great  class  to  which  he  did  not 
belong.  He  lived  in  middle-class  society,  was  cradled  in 
its  smug  self-conceit  and  nourished  at  the  breasts  of 
affectation.  He  spent  many  years  at  school  and  now 
realised  that  he  had  wasted  his  time  there.  After  leav- 
ing school  he  entered  a  bank  in  Paisley  and  spent  a  num- 
ber of  hours  daily  bending  over  a  desk,  copying  inter- 
minable figures  with  a  weary  pen. 

Seeing  the  conditions  under  which  labourers  wrought 
on  his  father's  farm  caused  him  to  think  seriously.  Once 
when  he  was  at  home  two  persons,  a  man  and  a  woman, 
Donal  and  Jean,  supposed  to  be  husband  and  wife,  got 
employment  in  the  steading.  These  two  people  were 
very  ragged,  very  dirty,  and  very  dissolute.  The  woman's 
face  was  hacked  in  a  terrible  manner ;  her  nose  had  been 
broken,  and  her  figure  looked  more  like  a  maltreated  ani- 
mal's than  a  human  being's.  The  man  was  low-set, 
stunted,  and  weedy.  Both  drew  their  wages  daily  and 
got  drunk  every  night.  One  night  when  they  had  re- 
turned from  a  neighbouring  village  Morrison  saw  them  in 
their  sleeping  quarters.  A  disused  pig-sty,  no  longer  ten- 
able for  animals,  was  handed  over  to  these  creatures.  A 
pile  of  dirty  straw  lay  on  the  floor  and  on  this  the  man 
and  woman  were  sleeping,  the  man  snoring  loudly,  the 
woman  lying  face  upwards ;  the  blunt  nails  of  her  bleed- 
ing fingers  showed  over  the  filthy  bags  which  covered  her 
body.  A  guttering  candle  was  dying  in  the  neck  of  a 
beer-bottle  beside  them  and  the  smell  of  beer  pervaded 
the  place. 

"It  must  be  an  awful  life,  this,"  he  said  to  his  father, 
who  accompanied  him. 

"These  kind  of  people  think  nothin'  of  it,"  his  father 
said.  "They  get  drunk  every  night  and  are  very  happy. 
Whisky  is  the  only  thing  they  want." 


172  The  Rat-Pit 

"Yes,  they  want  something  like  that  to  live  in  a  place 
like  this." 

What  struck  the  young  man  forcibly  at  that  moment 
was  that  the  people  were  like  himself ;  that  under  certain 
conditions  he  might  be  just  as  they  were,  even  like  the 
man  lying  under  the  dirty  bag  by  the  side  of  the  pock- 
marked harridan ;  and  that  man  under  favourable  condi- 
tions might  be  himself,  Morrison,  and  full  of  glorious 
dreams  for  the  betterment  of  the  race  to  which  he 
belonged. 

That  night  Morrison  slept  little,  and  when  sleep  came 
he  dreamt  that  he  lay  with  the  old  harridan  under  the 
dirty  coverlet,  his  arms  round  her  and  his  lips  pressed 
against  the  dry  and  almost  bloodless  lips  of  the  woman. 
In  the  morning  the  remembrance  of  the  dream  filled  him 
with  horror.  That  such  people  should  exist ;  that,  under 
certain  conditions,  he  might  be  the  man  lying  there  in  the 
pig-sty!  He  began  to  think  seriously  of  things.  Then 
he  came  across  a  woman  in  Paisley — a  woman  who  be- 
longed to  the  club  of  which  he  was  a  member — a  woman 
whom  he  thought  was  different  to  all  others.  She  was 
progressive  and  pronounced  in  her  views  and  explained  to 
Morrison  how  society  from  top  to  bottom,  from  hall  to 
hovel,  from  robes  to  rags,  was  an  expression  of  injustice, 
of  wrong,  of  vice,  of  filth  and  moral  decrepitude,  and  that 
in  the  interest  of  the  future  race  the  social  system  had  to 
be  changed  and  society  to  be  renovated.  Because  she  was 
very  clever  and  good  looking  Morrison  fell  in  love  with 
this  woman.  She  was  a  typist  in  a  merchant's  office. 

II 

THINKING  of  many  things,  he  sauntered  towards 
the  farm.    The  cigarette  went  out ;  he  threw  it  away 
and  lit  another.    The  evening  was  calm  and  quiet ;  a  few 


In  the  Lane  173 

late  birds  were  chirruping  in  the  hazel  bushes  and  some- 
where in  the  distance  a  dog  barked  loudly.  The  grey 
twilight  that  links  day  and  night  was  over  everything. 

Suddenly  Morrison  perceived  Norah  Ryan  coming 
towards  him.  She  wore  her  grey  tweed,  which  showed  to 
perfection  the  outlines  of  her  slender  figure.  In  one  hand 
she  carried  a  book,  the  other  hand  hung  idly  by  her  side. 

"Are  you  going  for  a  walk,  Norah  Ryan?"  Morrison 
asked  when  he  met  her. 

"I  am,"  she  answered,  hardly  knowing  whether  she 
should  stop  and  talk  to  him  or  continue  on  her  way. 

"You're  reading,  I  see."  He  took  the  cigarette  from 
his  mouth  as  he  spoke,  held  it  between  finger  and  thumb 
and  flicked  the  ash  off  with  his  little  finger. 

"Yes,  I'm  readin',"  she  said,  but  did  not  tell  him  what 
book  she  held  in  her  hand ;  he  could  see,  however,  that  it 
was  a  prayer-book. 

"When  do  the  squad  go  to  Ireland?" 

"Next  Friday,  if  all  goes  well,"  she  answered. 

"So  soon !"  Morrison  exclaimed,  and  in  his  voice  there 
was  a  vague  hint  of  regret.  "Are  you  glad  to  get  home 
again?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"And  the  rest  of  the  squad — what  are  they  doing  this 
evening?  Are  they  playing  cards?" 

"The  men  are;  the  women  are  singin',  some  of  them; 
and  Gourock  Ellen  and  Annie  are  mendin'  their 
clothes." 

"It  is  getting  dark  quickly,"  said  Morrison.  "Are  you 
coming  back  now?" 

"Is  it  time?"  she  asked,  then  said,  "I  suppose  it 
is." 

He  was  going  to  the  farm  and  it  would  be  nice  to  have 
his  company.  She  had  seen  him  going  out  and  anticipated 
meeting  him  coming  home.  Perhaps  that  was  why  she 


174  The  Rat-Pit 

had  come;  if  so  she  did  not  dare  to  confess  it,  even  to 
herself.  She  now  thought  that  she  should  not  have  come ; 
a  tremor  shook  her  for  a  moment,  then  she  turned  and 
went  back  along  the  lane  with  the  young  man. 

A  car  drawn  by  a  white  pony  came  up  behind  them, 
and  they  stepped  nearer  to  the  line  of  hazel  bushes  to  let 
it  pass.  They  were  now  very  close  to  one  another. 

"Some  of  the  people  on  the  next  farm,  coming  home 
from  church,"  said  Morrison  as  the  car  was  passing. 
"Watch  that  the  wheels  don't  catch  you.  The  lane  is  very 
narrow.  .  .  .  There!" 

He  caught  hold  of  her  by  the  waist,  drawing  her  close 
to  him  and  pressing  her  very  tightly. 

"The  car  was  almost  running  over  you,"  he  said. 

"Don't !"  she  cried,  striving  to  get  free.  "Don't  now ; 
it's  not  right." 

"The  wheel  .  .  ."he  said  in  a  husky  voice.  "The 
lane  is  so  narrow."  He  knew  that  he  was  telling  a  lie, 
but  at  the  same  time  he  felt  very  pleased  with  himself. 
He  had  dropped  the  cigarette,  which  could  be  seen  glow- 
ing red  on  the  dark  ground.  He  released  the  girl,  but 
would  have  liked  to  catch  her  in  his  arms  again.  The 
vehicle  went  rumbling  off  into  the  distance.  "It  is  so 
very  dark,  too,"  he  muttered  under  his  breath. 

They  walked  along  together,  both  busy  with  their  own 
thoughts,  the  girl  hot  and  ashamed,  but  curiously  elated ; 
the  young  man  in  some  way  angry  with  himself  for  what 
he  had  done,  but  at  the  same  time  desirous  of  clasping 
Norah  again  in  his  arms. 

"If  I  had  someone  to  tell  me  what  to  do,"  she  said 
under  her  breath,  but  knew  instinctively  that  there  was  no 
one  but  herself  to  determine  what  action  should  be  pur- 
sued in  an  event  like  this.  Even  if  advice  were  proffered 
to  her  she  knew  that  it  would  be  useless.  Something  was 


In  the  Lane  175 

driving  her  to  the  brink  of  an  unknown  which  she  feared, 
and  from  which  there  was  no  retreat  and  no  escape. 

"You  are  stumbling,"  said  Morrison,  and  again  caught 
hold  of  her.  She  had  not  stumbled;  it  was  a  pretext  on 
his  part;  he  merely  wanted  an  excuse  to  hold  her  in  his 
arms.  She  could  see  his  hand  on  her  sleeve  and  noticed 
the  gold  ring  sparkling  in  the  darkness. 

In  man  there  are  two  beings,  the  corporal  and  the 
spiritual;  one  striving  after  that  happiness  which  minis- 
ters to  the  passion  of  the  individual  to  the  detriment  of 
the  race;  the  other  which  seeks  for  happiness  according 
to  divine  laws,  a  happiness  that  is  good  for  all.  Yester- 
day, to-day,  ten  minutes  before,  this  spiritual  being  pre- 
sided over  Morrison's  destiny;  now  as  he  walked  along 
the  crooked  lane,  a  lone  wind  sighing  in  the  hazel  bushes 
and  a  few  stars  out  above  him,  he  felt  the  animal  man 
come  and  take  possession  of  him.  The  rustling  of 
Norah's  petticoats  as  she  walked  beside  him,  the  slight 
pressure  of  her  little  rough  ringers  on  his  large  smooth 
hand  filled  him  with  an  insatiable  animal  desire  which 
held  him  captive. 

This  was  no  new  experience,  and  it  possessed  for 
him  a  certain  charm  which  in  his  saner  moments  he 
loathed,  but  now  he  could  neither  conquer  nor  drive  it 
away. 

"I  like  the  bow  in  your  hair,"  he  said  in  a  hoarse  voice 
that  startled  the  girl.  "It  suits  you." 

"I  must  be  off  and  away  now,"  she  said,  freeing  her 
hand  from  his,  but  not  drawing  it  away  quickly  enough 
to  prevent  him  getting  possession  of  it  again.  "Let  me 
go,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "Ye  must  let  me  go.  What 
would  yerself  be  talkin'  to  the  likes  of  me  for?  .*.  ". 
There's  the  farm !" 

"Don't  hurry  away,"  said  Morrison,  bending  down  and 
placing  both  arms  round  her  waist  For  some  reason 


176  The  Rat-Pit 

which  he  could  not  fathom  he  felt  ashamed  of  himself, 
but  he  clasped  her  more  tightly  as  he  spoke.  "Why  are 
you  in  so  great  a  hurry?  You're  better  here.  Is  that 
young  fellow — Flynn  they  call  him,  I  think — waiting  for 
you  ?  Micky's  Jim  was  telling  me  all." 

"He  had  no  right  to,"  said  the  girl  angrily,  but  re- 
frained from  drawing  herself  away.  "Dermod  Flynn  is 
nothin'  to  me." 

"I'm  glad  of  that." 

"Why?"    . 

Morrison  did  not  answer.  It  would  be  unwise  to  com- 
mit himself  in  any  way,  he  thought,  and  for  a  moment  he 
mastered  the  passion  which  filled  his  body.  The  lights 
of  the  farm  sparkled  in  front.  The  open  shed  was  facing 
them.  The  fire  glowed  red  inside,  and  against  it  dark 
forms  came  and  went.  He  stooped  down  and  kissed  her 
three  times  and  she  could  feel  his  warm  body  press 
passionately  against  her  own. 

Someone  passed  near  them  and  Morrison  let  her  go. 
She  hurried  off  towards  the  shed,  and  he  could  hear  the 
patter  of  her  boots  as  she  ran.  She  passed  Dermod  Flynn 
on  her  way ;  no  doubt  he  had  seen  Morrison  kiss  her,  she 
thought.  When  she  entered  the  shed  Gourock  Ellen,  who 
was  bending  over  the  card  table,  looked  up  and  saw  the 
flush  of  colour  in  Norah's  face.  Then  Ellen  noticed 
Dermod  coming  in  and  saw  the  troubled  look  in  the  boy's 
eyes. 

"Dermod's  been  kissin'  ye,  lass,  I'll  warrant,"  she 
whispered  to  Norah,  then  turning  round  to  Micky's  Jim, 
she  opened  his  shirt  front  and  ran  her  fingers  down  his 
hairy  chest.  "Come  on  now,  Jim,  for  that'll  gie  ye  luck," 
she  cried. 

"Yes,  decent  woman,  it's  sure  to  give  me  luck,"  said 
Jim,  throwing  down  the  cards  and  putting  a  match  to  his 
pipe. 


In  the  Lane  177 

in 

WHAT  have  I  done,  what's  Alec  Morrison  to  me  ?" 
Norah  asked  herself  as  she  looked  in  her  little 
cracked  hand  mirror  ten  minutes  later.  "He's  nothin'  to 
me,  nothin',  nothin' ;  no  more  than  Dermod  Flynn  is.  The 
two  of  them  might  so  well  be  strangers  to  me.  Now  why 
did  he  kiss  me  ?  Dermod  never  kissed  me.  I'm  glad  of 
that." 

Norah  looked  round  the  byre,  at  the  bunks  in  the  stalls, 
the  cattle  troughs  and  the  candle  burning  on  the  iron 
stanchion.  She  was  alone,  the  other  women  were  still 
out  with  the  card-players  in  the  shed. 

"I  must  be  very  good-lookin',"  she  whispered  to  herself 
as  her  eyes  sought  their  reflection  in  the  cracked  mirror ; 
then  she  blushed  at  her  girlish  vanity  and  innocent  pride. 
"And  him  so  grand,  too,  a  gentleman!"  But  in  some 
indistinct  and  indefinite  way  she  felt  that  she  would  be 
raised  to  his  level.  "And  he  kissed  me — here."  She  put 
her  fingers  over  her  red  lips.  "But  he's  nothin'  to  me, 
nothin'.  Dermod  Flynn  is  nothin'  either."  She  knew 
that  the  first  assertion  was  not  true ;  the  repetition  of  the 
second  gave  her  a  certain  pleasure. 

"Do  I  love  two  of  them?  Can  one  love  two  people?" 
she  asked  herself.  "But  I'm  not  in  love  and  never  was. 
I  like  Dermod,  but  all  the  girls  in  the  squad  like  him.  .  .  . 
Why  did  Alec  Morrison  kiss  me,  and  him  a  gentleman? 
It  wasn't  my  fault,  was  it  ?"  She  looked  round  and  ad- 
dressed an  imaginary  person,  a  look  of  bewilderment  set- 
tling on  her  face. 

"Did  I  go  out  to  meet  him  this  evenin'?  Did  I  like  his 
kisses?  Is  Dermod  Flynn  angry?  I  couldn't  help  liking 
Dermod;  he  is  so  good,  so  kindly.  But  I'm  a  bad  girl, 
very  bad ;  all  my  life  was  full  of  sin.  Pride  and  vanity, 


178  The  Rat-Pit 

what  the  Catechism  condemned,  are  my  two  sins.  I  used 
to  be  vain  at  school.  I  had  two  shoes  and  I  was  proud, 
because  other  people  wore  only  mairteens.  I  used  to 
dress  my  hair  and  try  and  look  nicer  than  any  other 
girsha;  because  I  was  vain.  And  now  I'm  vain  because 
a  well-dressed  gentleman  talks  kindly  to  me.  God  for- 
give me !  Ah,  this  looking-glass,  I  hate  it !  I'll  just  have 
one  look  at  myself  and  then  never  get  hold  of  a  glass 
again." 

She  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  her  fingers  toyed  with  the 
potato  sacks  that  served  as  quilt. 

"Yes,  he's  very  nice  and  talks  to  us  so  kindly,"  she 
whispered,  and  again  her  eyes  sought  the  mirror.  "Oh, 
it  was  a  fine  evening,  one  of  the  nicest  ever  I  had.  .  .  . 
They're  not  too  red,  just  pale,  and  when  the  blush  is  in 
them  I'm  better  lookin'  than  at  any  time.  Has  any  one 
in  the  squad  cheeks  like  mine?  .  .  .  Why  did  he  want 
to  kiss  me  ?  And  my  boots  to  one  side  at  the  heels  and 
the  toe-cap  risin'  off  one  of  them.  I  wish  I  had  money, 
lots  of  it,  gold,  a  crock  of  gold  like  the  fairies  leave  under 
the  holly  bush  ...  I  could  buy  new  dresses  and  maybe 
rings.  Norah,  don't  let  your  hair  hang  down  so  far  over 
your  forehead,  it  doesn't  become  ye.  A  wee  bit  back 
there,  no,  here ;  that's  it.  Now  ye're  very  good  lookin'." 

"And  to  think  of  it  as  the  first  time  and  he  has  won 
fifteen  shillin's!"  said  Maire  a  Glan,  who  had  just  en- 
tered the  byre.  "Fifteen  shillin's,  Norah !" 

"What?" 

"He  won!" 

"Who?" 

"Who  but  Dermod  Flynn  ?"  said  the  old  woman.  "And 
him  playin'  for  the  first  time !" 


CHAPTER   XIX 

THE  END  OF  THE  SEASON 


IN  a  week's  time  the  squad  was  to  break  up :  Gourock 
Ellen,  Annie  and  the  two  men  who  joined  at 
Greenock,  were  leaving  for  Glasgow ;  Dermod 
Flynn  who,  despite  the  initial  success,  had  lost  all  his 
money  at  the  card-table,  was  going  to  remain  in  Scot- 
land and  earn  his  living  at  the  first  job  that  came  to 
hand.  Such  a  little  boy !  Norah  felt  sorry  for  him,  but 
now  he  hardly  deigned  to  look  at  her.  When  at  work  the 
far-away  look  was  always  in  his  eyes  and  at  night  he 
played  for  hours  on  end  at  the  gaming-table.  Most  of 
the  players  said  that  he  was  awfully  plucky  and  that  he 
would  stake  his  last  penny  on  a  card  and  lose  the  coin 
without  turning  a  hair. 

For  the  whole  week  prior  to  departure  Norah,  who  was 
now  very  restless,  laughed  nervously  when  a  joke  was 
passed,  but  seemingly  took  no  heed  of  the  joke.  She  was 
not  unhappy,  but  in  a  dim,  subconscious  way  felt  that 
she  had  done  something  very  wrong.  Before  knowing 
Dermod  intimately  he  frightened  her;  it  was  only  after 
knowing  Morrison  so  well  that  she  became  frightened  of 
him.  Dermod  had  never  kissed  her;  she  and  the  boy 
were  only  friends,  she  said  to  herself  time  and  again. 
Dermod  was  only  a  friend  of  hers,  nothing  more.  Some- 
times when  alone  she  said  so  aloud,  as  if  trying  to  drown 

179 


i8o  The  Rat-Pit 

the  inner  voice  that  told  her  it  was  not  true.  If  Dermod 
only  ceased  playing  cards  things  might  right  themselves, 
she  thought,  but  deep  down  in  her  heart  she  wished 
everything  to  go  on  just  as  at  present. 

Morrison  went  to  town  on  the  day  following  the  epi- 
sode in  the  lane,  but,  before  leaving,  told  Norah  that  he 
would  come  back  to  see  her  prior  to  her  departure  for 
Ireland. 

"Don't  tell  anybody  that  I  am  coming  back,"  he  said, 
and,  while  wondering  at  his  words,  she  promised  not  to 
tell. 

The  squad  was  going  on  Friday;  on  Thursday  night 
Morrison  returned,  a  rose  in  his  buttonhole  and  a  silver- 
handled  stick  in  his  hand.  She  saw  him  enter  the  farm- 
house as  she  returned  from  the  field,  her  knees  sore,  her 
clothes  wet,  and  straggling  locks  of  hair  falling  over  her 
brow.  At  supper  she  ate  little  but  took  great  care  over 
her  toilet;  scrubbed  her  hands,  which  were  very  sore, 
until  they  bled,  and  spent  nearly  half  an  hour  before  the 
little  looking-glass  which  she  had  brought  from  Ireland. 
She  sorted  her  tresses,  and  put  in  its  place  an  erring  lock 
that  persisted  in  falling  over  her  little  pink  ear. 

She  put  on  her  grey  dress,  tied  a  glossy  leather  belt 
around  her  waist,  laced  her  shoes,  and  when  she  had  fin- 
ished left  the  byre,  which  was  lit  up  by  a  long  white 
candle  stuck  in  the  neck  of  a  whisky-bottle,  and  went  out 
to  the  cart-shed  where  the  squad  assembled. 

Morrison  was  there  before  her,  sitting  beside  Micky's 
Jim  on  the  end  of  an  upturned  cart,  and  speaking  to 
Maire  a  Glan  about  the  hardships  of  the  field.  Willie  the 
Duck  played  his  fiddle,  now  sadly  out  of  tune ;  a  game  of 
cards  was  in  progress,  and  Dermod  Flynn,  who  held  the 
bank,  was  losing  rapidly.  It  was  said  that  he  had  no 
money  in  hand  except  the  wages  which  he  had  lifted  that 
day,  and  now  it  was  nearly  gone.  What  would  he  do 


The  End  of  the  Season         181 

when  all  was  spent?  Nobody  enquired,  but  it  was  evi- 
dent that  he  would  not  return  to  Ireland  that  winter. 

Norah  entered,  her  head  bent  down  a  little,  her  hands 
clasped  together  and  a  look  of  hesitation  on  her  face. 

"Ha!  there's  another  one  that's  for  Ireland  in  the 
morning,"  said  Micky's  Jim,  taking  the  pipe  from  his 
mouth  and  spitting  down  between  his  legs  to  the  floor. 
It  was  to  Norah  that  he  spoke,  and  Dermod  Flynn  ceased 
playing  for  a  moment  to  glance  over  the  rim  of  his  cards 
at  the  girl.  But  his  mind  was  busy  with  something  else 
and  his  eyes  turned  back  almost  instantly  to  the  gaming- 
table. He  cared  nothing  for  her,  Norah  thought,  and 
the  idea  gave  her  a  strange  comfort. 

"You're  going  to-morrow  as  well  as  the  rest?"  said 
Morrison  when  the  girl  drew  up  to  the  fire.  He  knew 
that  she  was  going  and  felt  that  he  should  have  said 
something  else.  Presently,  however,  he  asked :  "Are 
you  glad?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  but  the  look  in  her  eyes  might 
have  meant  "No."  Morrison  understood  it  thus,  and  the 
sensation  which  surged  through  him  on  Sunday  evening 
surged  through  him  again. 

"Not  goin'  to  play  any  more;  skinned  out,"  someone 
said  at  the  table.  Norah  glanced  at  the  players  and  saw 
that  Dermod  Flynn  had  risen.  He  approached  the  fire, 
one  hand  deep  in  his  pocket,  the  other  holding  a  splinter 
of  wood  which  he  threw  into  the  flames.  He  had  lost  all 
his  money ;  he  hadn't  a  penny  in  the  world  now.  Gourock 
Ellen  offered  him  a  piece  of  silver  to  retrieve  his  fallen 
fortunes. 

"If  I  don't  win  I  cannot  pay  you  back,"  he  said,  and 
sat  down  beside  Morrison  and  facing  Norah.  Fixing  his 
eyes  on  the  fire  he  was  presently  buried  in  a  reverie  and 
the  dreamy  look  of  the  schoolboy  was  again  on  his  face. 
One  of  his  hands  was  bleeding;  it  had  been  torn  on  a 


182  The  Rat-Pit 

jagged  stave  which  got  loose  on  the  rim  of  Norah's  basket 
earlier  in  the  day;  his  knees  peeped  out  through  his 
trousers  and  the  uppers  of  both  his  boots  had  risen  from 
the  soles. 

Norah  gazed  at  him  covertly,  saw  the  wound  on  his 
hand,  the  bare  knees  showing  through  the  trousers,  and 
the  toes  peeping  through  the  torn  uppers.  Then  some- 
thing glistened  brightly  and  caught  her  eyes.  It  was  the 
ring  on  Morrison's  finger.  The  young  man  was  speaking. 

"...  and  it  will  be  ten  months  before  you  are  back 
in  the  squad  again.  Such  a  long  time !" 

"It's  not  much  comfort  we  have  in  this  country  any- 
way," said  Maire  a  Glan,  who  was  turning  the  heel  of  a 
stocking,  stopping  for  a  moment  to  run  one  of  the  needles 
through  her  hair. 

"I  have  got  to  go  into  the  house  now,"  said  Morrison, 
rising  to  his  feet  and  holding  out  a  hand  to  the  fire.  "I 
hope  you'll  all  have  a  good  voyage  across  to-morrow 
night." 

"The  Lord  will  be  with  us,"  said  Biddy  Wor,  who  had 
just  come  in  from  the  byre  carrying  a  small  frying-pan  in 
one  hand  and  a  pot  of  porridge  in  the  other. 

"How  long  does  it  take  to  cross  from  Greenock  to 
Londonderry?"  Morrison  asked  Biddy  Wor,  meanwhile 
fixing  his  eyes  on  Norah  Ryan. 

"Derry,  ye  mean,"  said  the  old  woman.  "We  always 
say  'Derry/  but  it's  the  foreigner,  bad  luck  be  with  him ! 
that  put  London  on  to  it.  From  Greenock  it  takes  ten 
hours,  more  or  less." 

Morrison  drew  a  cigarette  from  a  leather  case  which 
he  took  from  his  pocket.  As  he  was  lighting  the  cigarette 
he  dropped  the  case  and  it  fell  beside  Norah's  feet.  He 
bent  down  hurriedly. 

"Come  out  into  the  open,  for  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you,"  he  whispered  in  a  low  voice  to  Norah  as  he 


The  End  of  the  Season         183 

stooped;  then  he  went  out,  taking  leave  of  the  party  in 
one  "Good-night,"  and  five  minutes  later  Norah  rose 
from  her  seat  and  followed  him. 

"Where  are  ye  goin',  girsha  ?"  asked  Maire  a  Glan. 

"Down  to  the  byre,"  said  the  girl  without  turning 
round. 

Morrison  was  standing  in  the  shadow  which  fringed 
the  fan-like  stretch  of  light  thrown  from  the  shade. 

"Is  that  you,  Norah?"  he  asked,  knowing  well  that  it 
was  she,  and  as  he  spoke  he  took  her  into  his  arms  and 
kissed  her.  To  Norah  there  was  something  dreadful  in 
this  kiss,  and  while  not  knowing  that  it  gave  expression  to 
the  pent-up  passion  of  the  man,  she  felt  nervous  and 
afraid.  She  looked  back  to  the  shed,  saw  the  faces  round 
the  gaming-table,  old  Maire  knitting  in  the  corner,  her 
needles  showing  brightly  as  the  firelight  played  on  them. 
A  disused  cart-wheel  hung  from  the  wall ;  she  had  never 
noticed  it  before  .  .  .  Here  in  the  dark  beyond  the  circle 
of  light  something  terrible  threatened  her,  something  that 
she  could  not  comprehend  but  which  her  beating  heart 
told  her  was  wrong,  and  should  be  avoided.  Why  should 
she  be  afraid  ?  Norah  had  all  the  boldness  of  innocence : 
her  virtue  was  not  armed  with  that  knowledge  which 
makes  it  weigh  its  every  action  carefully.  Morrison  was 
speaking,  asking  her  to  come  further  out  into  the  dark- 
ness, but  she  still  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  shed.  Safety 
lay  there;  freedom  from  what  she  could  not  compre- 
hend. The  man  had  hold  of  her  hands,  pressing  them 
tightly,  entreating  her  to  do  something.  She  freed  her- 
self from  his  grasp  and  ran  back  to  the  shed,  half  glad 
that  the  whole  incident  had  taken  place,  and  more  than 
a  little  desirous  to  go  out  again.  Her  love  for  the  well- 
dressed  youth  imparted  a  recklessness  to  her  timid  nature. 
When  she  went  to  her  sleeping  quarters  two  hours  later 
old  Maire  a  Glan  accompanied  her.  The  gamblers  were 


184  The  Rat-Pit 

still  playing,  the  fire  blazed  merrily,  and  Ginger  Dubbin 
held  the  bank  and  was  winning  heavily. 

"What's  that,  that's  shinin'  in  front  of  us?"  asked 
Maire  a  Glan  as  she  came  out.  "Maybe  it's  only  seein' 
things  that  I  am,  for  me  old  eyes  play  tricks  in  the  dark- 
ness." 

"It  looks  like  a  live  spark  lyin'  on  the  ground,"  said 
Norah. 

"That's  not  on  the  cold  ground,"  answered  the  woman. 
"See,  it's  movin' !  It'll  be  the  farmer's  son  with  the  gold 
ring  on  his  finger.  Now  what  will  he  be  after  waitin'  for 
there?" 

"How  am  I  to  know?"  said  Norah,  but  in  such  a  low 
voice  that  the  old  woman  had  to  draw  near  to  catch  the 
words.  "I'm  sleepy,"  she  said  after  a  pause;  "it's  time 
we  were  in  bed." 

ii 

ON  the  morning  of  the  day  following,  the  squad  pre- 
pared for  their  departure,  and  gathered  up  all  their 
spare  clothes,  their  pans  and  porringers,  and  packed  them 
in  woollen  handkerchiefs  and  tin  boxes.  The  blankets, 
eighteen  in  all,  were  tied  up  in  a  parcel,  ready  to  be  sent 
off  to  the  merchant  in  town. 

"God  knows  who'll  sleep  in  them  next  year!"  said 
Willie  the  Duck  in  a  pathetic  voice,  and  everybody 
laughed,  some  because  they  enjoyed  the  remark  and 
others  because  it  was  the  correct  thing  to  laugh  at  every 
word  uttered  by  Willie  the  Duck. 

Dermod  Flynn  watched  the  preparations  with  im- 
passive face.  He  was  not  going  home;  in  fact,  he  had 
not  as  much  money  in  his  possession  as  would  pay  the 
railway  fare  to  the  nearest  town.  All  his  wages  had  been 
lost  on  the  gaming-table ;  he  had  nothing  now  to  rely  on 


The  End  of  the  Season         185 

but  the  labour  of  his  own  hands  and  the  chance  of  get- 
ting a  job. 

"What  will  ye  do,  Dermod  ?"  Maire  a  Glan  asked. 

"I'll  try  and  .  .  .  But  what  does  it  matter  to  you  what 
I  do?  One  would  think  to  hear  you  talk  that  I  was  a 
child." 

"I  suppose  there'll  be  a  lot  of  drunk  people  on  the  boat 
this  night,"  said  Micky's  Jim  as  he  tied  a  tin  porringer  in 
a  rag  and  placed  it  in  his  box.  "There'll  be  some  fightin' 
too,  I'll  go  bail." 

"The  Derry  boat  is  the  place  for  fightin',  as  the  man 
said." 

"Aye,  sure,  and  the  Irish  are  very  fond  of  fightin' 
when  they're  drunk." 

"It's  more  in  the  blood  than  in  the  bottle,  all  the  same," 
said  Eamon  Doherty. 

"I  mind  one  fight  on  the  Derrier,"  said  Micky's  Jim, 
biting  a  mouthful  from  the  end  of  his  plug.  "I  was  in 
the  fight  meself.  (If  the  cork  comes  out  of  that  bottle  of 
milk,  Owen  Kelly,  it'll  make  a  hell  of  a  mess  on  yer 
clothes.)  It  started  below.  'There's  no  man  here,'  said 

I,  'that  could '  (Them  trousers  are  not  worth  taking 

with  ye,  Eamon  Doherty.  No  man  would  wear  clothes 
like  that;  a  person  would  better  be  painted  and  go  out 
bare  naked) — 'that  could  put  up  his  fives  to  me.'  (If 
ye  dress  yer  hair  like  that,  Brigit  Doherty,  I'll  not  be  seen 
goin'  into  Greenanore  with  ye.)  Then  a  man  drove  full 
but  for  my  face  and  I  took  the  dunt  like  an  ox.  (Willie 
the  Duck,  are  ye  goin'  to  take  that  famine  fiddle  home 
again?  Change  it  for  a  Jew's  harp  or  a  pair  of  laces!) 
'That's  how  a  Glenmornan  man  takes  it,'  says  I,  and 
came  in  with  a  clowt  to  the  jowl " 

"Stop  yer  palaver  about  fightin',  Micky's  Jim,  and  let 
us  get  away  to  the  station,"  said  Maire  a  Glan.  "We'll 
not  auction  time  while  we're  waitin',  as  the  man  said." 


186  The  Rat-Pit 

"If  we  go  off  now  we'll  only  have  three  hours  to  wait 
for  the  train,"  remarked  Jim  sarcastically. 

"And  poor  Dermod  Flynn,"  said  Maire  a  Glan,  tying 
her  bundle  over  her  shoulders  with  a  string.  "Not  a 
penny  at  all  left  him.  Where's  Norah  Ryan  ?  She's  the 
girl  to  save  her  money." 

At  that  moment  Norah  was  outside  with  Morrison  and 
the  young  man  was  asking  a  question.  The  wish  to  find 
an  answer  to  it  had  kept  him  awake  for  nearly  half  the 
previous  night 

"Why  did  you  run  away  from  me  yesterday  evening, 
Norah?" 

"I  was  frightened." 

"Of  what?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  I  certainly  don't  know  what  caused  you  to  run 
away." 

Morrison  knew  that,  innocent  though  Norah  was,  some 
subtle  instinct  warned  her  the  night  before  to  hurry  off 
to  the  safety  of  the  shed. 

"I  would  like  to  know  why  you  did  it,  why  you  ran 
away,  I  mean  ?"  he  asked,  knowing  in  his  own  heart  that, 
if  she  understood,  sae  had  good  reason  to  be  afraid. 
"Does  the  girl  understand  ?"  he  pondered.  He  had  heard 
them  talk  of  most  things  in  Micky's  Jim's  squad,  but  per- 
haps the  girl  paid  no  heed  to  the  talk. 

"Are  you  coming  back  next  year  ?"  he  enquired. 

"It's  more  nor  likely." 

"Do  you  care  for  the  life  in  the  squad  ?" 

"It  could  be  worse." 

"That's  no  recommendation,"  said  Morrison  with  a 
laugh,  but  seeing  that  Norah  failed  to  understand  him, 
he  went  on :  "I  don't  think  you  could  have  a  life  much 
harder  than  this." 

"I  did  not  even  kiss  you  last  night,"  he  said  after  a 


The  End  of  the  Season         187 

short  silence,  "and  now  you  are  going  away  and  maybe 
never  coming  back  again.  I  would  kiss  you  now,  only 
some  of  the  squad  might  see  us,  and  you  wouldn't  like 
that." 

But  for  the  squad  Morrison  cared  nothing.  He  was 
just  on  the  point  of  kissing  Norah  when  he  noticed  his 
father  looking  at  him  through  a  window  of  the  farm- 
house. Although  not  respecting  his  father  overmuch, 
for  old  Morrison  was  a  hard-drinking  and  short-tempered 
man,  the  son  did  not  want  the  little  love  affair  to  be 
spoken  of  in  the  house. 

"If  you  stay  to-night  in  Greenock,  Norah,  I'll  go  down 
with  you,"  said  the  young  fellow.  "Will  you  stay  ?" 

"Why  should  I  stay?"  asked  Norah,  who  did  not  un- 
derstand what  Morrison's  words  meant. 

"Because — well,  you  see — "  stammered  the  youth. 
"Oh !  I  think  you'd  better  go  with  the  rest.  I'll  see  you 
next  year." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  clasped  hers  almost  fiercely  and 
without  another  word  turned  and  went  towards  the 
house.  On  the  way  he  lit  a  cigarette,  rubbed  a  speck  of 
dirt  from  the  knee  of  his  well-creased  trousers,  and  won- 
dered why  he  wanted  to  take  possession  of  the  innocent 
girl.  Despite  his  high-flown  views  on  the  equality  of 
man,  Morrison  never  thought  of  marrying  Norah.  Be- 
sides, there  was  Ellen  Keenans,  the  advanced  woman 
and  author  of  Songs  of  the  Day,  and  it  was  Ellen  who 
taught  him  what  man's  conception  of  duty  towards  the 
race  should  be.  At  the  present  moment  Morrison  did  not 
see  how  he  could  fit  in  with  Ellen's  teachings. 

That  night  most  of  the  squad  sailed  for  Ireland; 
Gourock  Ellen  and  Annie  took  their  way  to  Glasgow,  and 
Dermod  Flynn  set  out  on  the  open  road,  ragged,  penni- 
less, and  alone. 


CHAPTER   XX 

ORIGINAL   SIN 


A  YEAR  had  passed;  the  potato  season  was  over, 
but  old  Morrison,  who  was  making  considerable 
improvements  in  his  steading,  had  kept  the  squad 
to  work  for  him  two  months  longer  than  usual,  and  all 
the  party  of  the  previous  year,  with  the  exception  of 
Dermod  Flynn,  Ellen,  and  Annie,  was  there.  Nobody 
in  the  squad  knew  where  Dermod  had  gone,  but  rumour 
had  it  that  he  worked  during  the  previous  winter  as  a 
farm  hand  on  a  farm  near  Paisley.  It  was  also  said  that 
he  had  done  very  well  and  had  sent  ten  pounds  home  to 
his  people  in  Glenmornan. 

Norah  Ryan  had  spent  the  winter  and  spring  at  home ; 
her  mother  was  still  alive,  but  seldom  ventured  outside 
the  door  of  the  cabin.  "The  coldness  of  the  dead  is 
creeping  over  me,"  she  told  Norah  when  the  girl  was 
leaving  for  Scotland.  "My  feet  are  like  lumps  of  ice, 
and  when  the  cold  reaches  my  heart  it  will  be  the  end, 
thanks  be  to  God !" 

Norah  felt  deeply  for  her  mother ;  the  old  woman  had 
none  now  but  her  daughter  in  all  the  world.  Fergus 
had  not  been  heard  of  for  the  last  three  years ;  some  said 
that  the  boy  was  dead,  others  that  he  was  alive  and  mak- 
ing a  big  fortune.  Norah  always  prayed  for  him  nightly 
when  she  went  down  on  her  knees,  asking  the  Virgin  to 

188 


Original  Sin  189 

send  him  safe  home,  and  "if  he  is  dead  to  intercede  with 
her  Son  for  the  repose  of  his  soul." 

At  the  end  of  each  fortnight  the  girl,  who  earned 
twelve  shillings  weekly,  sent  sixteen  home  to  her  mother. 
In  four  months  Norah  sent  six  pounds  eight  shillings  to 
Frosses,  and  a  pound  of  this  went  towards  the  expense 
of  the  priest's  mansion.  The  same  amount  had  been  paid 
the  year  before  and  Norah  was  well-pleased,  because 
now  her  father  would  rest  easily  in  his  grave.  "He'll 
rest  in  peace  now  that  all  his  lawful  debts  are  paid,"  the 
old  parish  priest  said. 

Micky's  Jim  had  fallen  in  love  with  Oiney  Dinchy's 
daughter  and  it  was  said  that  he  was  going  to  get  mar- 
ried to  her  when  he  went  back  to  Ireland.  Owen  Kelly 
was  as  niggardly  as  ever.  Once  during  the  year  he  had 
bought  a  pennyworth  of  milk  and  at  night  he  left  it  in  a 
beer-bottle  beside  his  bed.  In  the  morning  the  milk  was 
gone  and  Owen  wept!  So  Micky's  Jim  said;  and  Jim 
also  circulated  a  story  about  a  rat  that  drank  the  milk 
from  the  bottle. 

"But  that  couldn't  be,  as  the  man  said." 

"But  it  could  be.  I  saw  it  while  all  the  rest  of  ye 
were  snorin'." 

"There's  no  standin'  your  lies,  Micky's  Jim." 

"True  as  death  'twas  a  rat  that  drunk  the  milk,"  Jim 
explained.  "I  saw  it  meself.  Stuck  its  tail  down  the 
neck  of  the  bottle  and  licked  its  tail  when  it  took  it  out. 
Took  two  hours  to  drink  the  whole  lot.  I  once  had  a 
great  fight  and  all  about  a  bottle  of  milk " 

It  was  Christmas  Eve.  Norah  sat  beside  the  coal  fire 
which  burned  in  the  large  stove  in  Morrison's  cart  shed, 
seeing  pictures  in  the  flames.  Outside  there  was  no  moon, 
but  a  million  stars  shone  in  a  heaven  that  was  coldly 
clear.  To-morrow  the  squad  was  going  home. 

"I  haven't  seen  that  fellow,  young  Morrison,  for  a 


190  The  Rat-Pit 

whole  year,"  said  Maire  a  Glan,  who  was  sewing  patches 
on  her  dress.  "I  don't  like  the  look  of  yon  fellow;  it 
makes  me  sick  to  see  him  sittin'  here,  askin'  us  about  how 
we  do  this  and  how  we  do  that,  what  we  do  at  home  and 
how  many  acres  of  land  have  we  got  in  Ireland,  and  hun- 
dreds of  other  things  that  the  very  priest  himself 
wouldn't  ask  ye." 

"He's  a  good  youngster,  for  all  ye  say,"  remarked 
Owen  Kelly,  who  once  got  a  shilling  as  a  tip  from  the 
young  fellow.  "That's  no  reason  for  ye  takin'  such  an  ill 
will  against  him,  Maire  a  Glan." 

"I  don't  like  him  atall,  atall,"  said  the  old  woman  dog- 
gedly. "There's  something  about  him  that  I  care  little 
for." 

"We  all  have  our  faults,  Maire,"  said  old  Biddy  Wor. 
"And  it  goes  against  the  grain  with  me  to  speak  ill  of 
anybody,  no  matter  who  they  are.  Ye've  noticed  that 
yerself." 

"I  couldn't  fail  to,  seein'  you've  told  me  so  often,"  said 
Maire  a  Glan. 

"There  are  faults  and  faults,"  remarked  Eamon  Do- 
herty.  "And  some  faults  are  worse  at  one  time  than 
another.  D'ye  mind  the  beansho?"  he  asked,  turning  to 
Biddy  Wor.  "Of  course  ye  mind  her.  Well,  the  man 
that  was  the  cause  of — ye  know  yerself — he  got  drounded 
at  the  fishin'  before  he  could  get  married  to  Sheila.  Her 
fault  was  not  a  great  one  atall,  atall." 

"She  was  a  brazen  heifer,  anyway,"  said  Biddy  Wor. 

"Where  is  she  now  ?"  Eamon  Doherty  enquired. 

"No  one  knows  atall,  atall,"  said  Judy  Carrol. 
"Maybe  she's  a — a  one  like  Gourock  Ellen,  God  be  good 
to  us  all !" 

"I  hear  that  she's  in  Glasgow,"  said  Murtagh  Gal- 
lagher. 

"Glasgow  is  the  town  to  be  in,"  remarked  Micky's 


Original  Sin  191 

Jim,  scraping  the  wet  tobacco  from  the  bottom  of  his 
pipe.  "By  the  hokey !  It  was  a  great  place  for  fightin'. 
One  night  I  had  seven  fights  hand  running.  A  fellow 
named  Droughty  Tom  was  shootin'  out  his  neck  on  the 
Docks.  'What  are  ye  chewin'  the  rag  for,  old  slobber 
chops?'  I  ups  to  him  and  says,  shovin'  my  fist  under  his 
nose:  There's  a  smell  of  dead  men  off  that  fist/  I 
said " 

"We're  sick  to  the  bottom  of  the  grave  of  hearin' 
about  yer  fightin',  Micky's  Jim,"  said  Dora  Doherty,  who 
entered  the  shed  at  that  moment.  "D'ye  know  who's 
out  there  ?"  she  asked. 

"No." 

"It's  that  youngster,  Morrison,"  said  the  woman.  "I 
saw  somethin'  black  in  the  darkness,  and  I  thought  it 
would  be  the  farmer's  son." 

Norah  Ryan  started  forward  in  her  seat,  turned  round, 
looked  at  Maire  a  Glan,  rose,  and  went  outside. 


II 

SHE  had  not  seen  Morrison  for  close  on  fourteen 
months,  and  he  had  never  written  to  her;  but  time 
and  again  she  intended  to  post  one  of  the  letters  which 
she  spent  part  of  her  time  in  writing  to  him.  But  they 
were  never  posted,  and  often  she  wondered  why  she  had 
written  them.  Why,  he  wouldn't  care  for  her,  she  told 
herself  many  times.  He  was  far  above  her,  a  gentleman ; 
she  was  only  a  poor  worker,  a  little  potato  gatherer.  He 
had  never  written  and  perhaps  he  did  not  love  her  one 
little  bit.  She  felt  angry  and  resentful  with  him,  as  she 
went  out  from  the  stuffy  shed  and  looked  up  at  the  starlit 
sky. 

Alec  Morrison  was  waiting.    Norah  could  see  his  dark 


192  The  Rat-Pit 

form  showing  against  the  white  gable  of  the  byre,  and 
could  hear  the  crunch  of  his  boots  on  the  gravel  as  he 
changed  his  position.  He  had  just  come  from  Glasgow ; 
he  was  working  there  now  and  he  had  come  down  to  see 
Norah  before  she  went  back  to  Ireland.  He  had  often 
intended  to  write  to  her  but  never  did.  Other  more 
pressing  problems,  relating  to  a  new  sweetheart,  a  pretty 
little  damsel  in  wonderful  dresses  and  with  no  more 
morals  than  a  bird,  took  up  his  attention.  He  held  out 
his  hand  to  Norah  when  she  approached. 

"I'm  glad  you've  come  out,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"I've  been  waiting  here  for  quite  a  long  while." 

He  had  been  waiting  for  her!  Norah's  heart  gave  a 
bound  of  gladness. 

"But  you  never  wrote  to  me,"  she  said  reproachfully. 

"You  didn't  write  to  me  and  I  didn't  know  your  ad- 
dress." 

That  was  really  why  he  hadn't  written !  How  strange 
she  had  never  thought  of  that. 

"And  ye  would  write  ?" 

"Certainly,  Norah,"  he  said.  He  had  not  let  her  hand 
go,  now  he  imprisoned  the  other.  How  coarse  they  were 
and  hard  from  her  season's  work!  The  hands  of  the 
Glasgow  girl.  .  .  .  But  he  felt  that  he  was  doing  some- 
thing wrong  in  comparing  the  two  women  at  that  mo- 
ment. 

"Do  you  mind  the  last  night  you  were  here  ?" 

"I  have  often  been  thinkin'  of  that  night,"  said  Norah. 

"Are  you  going  to  run  away  from  me  to-night?" 

"No." 

"Why  did  you  run  away  the  last  time?" 

"I  don't  know.    Maybe  it  was  that  I  was  afraid." 

She  looked  back  at  the  shed  as  she  spoke,  saw  old 
Maire  a  Glan  bending  over  the  fire,  Willie  the  Duck 
playing  his  fiddle ;  could  hear  the  loud  laughter  of  Micky's 


Original  Sin  193 

Jim.  Norah  looked  up  at  the  face  of  the  man  beside 
her  and  was  not  in  the  least  afraid. 

"We'll  go  along  the  lane  a  bit,"  he  said. 

They  went  together  hand  in  hand  along  the  hazel-lined 
gravel  pathway.  Overhead  the  stars  sparkled,  the  trees, 
showing  thin  against  the  sky,  waved  their  bare  arms  in 
the  slight  breeze  and  moaned  plaintively.  Willie  the  Duck 
was  playing  "Way  down  upon  the  Swanee  River,"  and  it 
seemed  as  if  the  melody  drifted  in  from  a  great  distance. 

"That's  a  wonderful  melody,"  said  the  young  man. 
"In  it  is  the  heart  and  soul  of  a  persecuted  people." 

He  had  heard  somebody  make  that  remark  in  the  club 
and  it  appealed  to  him.  The  girl  made  no  answer  to  his 
words.  They  stopped  as  if  by  mutual  consent  opposite 
the  large  shed  in  the  stack  yard. 

"It's  very  cold,"  said  Morrison. 

"Is  it?     No." 

"We'll  go  in  here,"  said  the  young  man.  He  pulled 
the  gate  of  the  stack  yard  apart  and  went  in,  Norah  fol- 
lowing. A  vague  sense  of  danger,  of  some  impending 
menace,  suddenly  took  possession  of  the  girl.  The  sight 
of  the  fire  shining  would  be  comforting,  but  she  could  not 
see  the  shed  now.  Between  her  and  it  the  farmhouse 
stood  up  white  and  lonesome.  A  light  glimmered  for  a 
moment  in  one  of  the  rooms,  then  went  out.  Some- 
where near  a  dog  barked  loudly,  another  joined  in  the 
outcry ;  an  uneasy  bird  rose  from  the  copse  and  fluttered 
off  into  the  night. 

They  entered  the  shed.  Inside  it  was  warm  and  quiet 
and  the  scent  of  old  hay  pervaded  the  place.  A  strange 
fear,  blending  in  some  measure  with  joy,  came  over 
Norah.  Morrison's  arms  were  round  her  and  she  felt 
as  if  she  wanted  to  tell  him  some  great  secret.  No 
thought  of  danger  was  now  in  her  mind.  The  problems 
of  existence  had  never  given  her  a  moment's  thought. 


194  The  Rat-Pit 

All  things  were  to  her  a  matter  of  course,  the  world,  the 
trees,  the  flowers  and  stars,  and  men  and  women.  Love 
in  some  vague  way  she  knew  was  related  to  marriage  just 
as  faith  had  some  relation  to  heaven.  But  the  faith  in  God 
which  was  hers  was  something  which  she  never  strove 
to  analyse,  and  the  love  for  the  young  man  filled  her  be- 
ing so  much  at  present  that  she  could  not  draw  herself 
apart  from  it  and  consider  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  her 
position. 

Everything  was  so  peaceful  and  quiet  that  it  seemed  as 
if  all  the  world  were  asleep  and  dreaming.  Some  words, 
hazy  as  the  remembrance  of  almost  forgotten  dreams, 
drifted  into  her  mind.  They  were  words  once  spoken 
by  Sheila  Carrol  at  the  hour  of  midnight  on  Dooey 
Strand. 

"When  the  earth  is  asleep,  child,  that  will  be  a  danger- 
ous hour,  for  you  may  then  commit  the  mortal  sin  of 
love." 

What  did  Sheila  mean  when  she  spoke  like  that  ?  Why 
was  she  thinking  of  those  words  now?  Norah  did  not 
know.  Before  her  was  a  great  mystery,  something  unex- 
plainable,  terrible.  The  great  fundamental  truths  of  life 
were  unknown  to  Norah;  no  one  had  ever  explained  to 
her  why  she  was  and  how  she  had  come  into  being.  She 
walked  blindly  in  a  world  of  pitfalls  and  perils ;  unhelped 
by  anyone  she  groped  futilely  in  the  dark  for  one  sure 
resting  place,  looked  for  one  illuminating  ray  of  cer- 
tainty to  light  up  her  path.  At  that  moment  the  soul 
within  the  fair  body  of  hers  warned  her  in  some  vague 
way  of  the  danger  which  lay  before  her.  "You  may  com- 
mit the  mortal  sin  of  love." 

What  did  those  words  mean?  She  wanted  to  run 
away,  but  instead  she  clung  closer  to  the  man ;  she  could 
feel  his  lips  hot  on  hers  and  his  breath  warm  on  her 
cheek. 


Original  Sin  195 

in 

SOMETHING  terrible  had  happened.  The  maiden's 
purity,  never  sullied  by  a  careless  thought,  was  sul- 
lied for  ever.  To  the  girl  it  appeared  as  if  something 
priceless  which  she  loved  and  treasured  had  suddenly 
been  broken  to  pieces.  Morrison  stood  beside  her,  his 
hands  resting  on  her  shoulders,  his  breath  short  and 
husky;  and  his  whole  appearance  became  suddenly  re- 
pulsive to  the  girl.  And  the  man  wanted  to  be  gone  from 
her  side.  He  had  desired  much,  obtained  what  he  de- 
sired, but  was  now  far  from  satisfied.  He  felt  in  some 
vague,  inexplicable  way  that  she  had  suddenly  become 
distasteful  to  him.  With  other  women  he  had  often  be- 
fore experienced  the  same  feeling.  He  bent  over  the  girl, 
who  quivered  like  a  reed  under  his  hands. 

"Are  you  going  into  the  house  ?"  he  asked.  He  almost 
said  "byre." 

"I'll  go  in  myself,"  she  answered  in  a  low  voice.  "Go 
away  and  leave  me.  ...  Go  away!" 

"Are  you  angry  with  me?"  he  asked.  He  was  now 
ashamed  of  all  that  had  taken  place,  ashamed  of  himself 
and  ashamed  of  the  girl.  In  some  subconscious  way  it 
was  borne  to  him  that  the  girl  was  to  blame.  He  thrust 
the  thought  away  for  a  moment  but  when  it  returned 
again  he  hugged  it  eagerly.  He  wanted  to  believe  it ;  he 
chose  to  believe  it. 

"Good-night,  Norah.  I'll  see  you  again  to-morrow  be- 
fore you  go  away."  He  released  her  arms  and  went  out 
through  the  gateway.  She  could  hear  his  footsteps  for 
a  long  while  but  never  looked  after  him.  A  great  fear 
settled  on  her  heart ;  she  was  suddenly  conscious  of  hav- 
ing done  something  terribly  wrong,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
the  very  fabric  of  her  life  had  been  torn  to  shreds. 


196  The  Rat-Pit 

Weeping,  she  stole  back  to  the  shed  like  a  frightened 
child. 

The  party  was  in  a  great  state  of  excitement.  A  rat 
chased  by  some  prowling  dog  had  just  run  into  the  shed 
and  passed  between  the  legs  of  Maire  a  Glan,  who  was 
warming  her  hands  at  the  fire. 

"Mercy  be  on  us!  a  dirty,  big  grey  rat,"  Maire  was 
saying.  "It  was  that  long,  as  the  man  said."  She 
stretched  a  long  lean  arm  out  in  front  of  her  as  she  spoke. 

"If  we  caught  it  we'd  put  paraffin  oil  all  over  it  and  set 
fire  to  its  hair,"  said  Micky's  Jim.  "That's  what  scares 
the  rats !" 

"Ye  wouldn't  set  fire  to  a  dumb  animal,  would  ye?" 
asked  B  rigid  Doherty. 

"Wouldn't  I?    What  would  yerself  do  with  it?" 

"One  might  kill  it  in  an  easier  way." 

"Any  way  at  all.  for  it's  all  the  same,"  said  Micky's 
Jim.  "Last  year  me  and  Dermod  Flynn  killed  a  lot  on 
yon  farm  in  Rothesay.  The  farmer  gave  us  a  penny  a 
tail  and  we  made  lots  of  tin.  How  much  did  we  make, 
Norah  Ryan?"  he  asked.  "It's  yerself  that  has  the 
memory  and  ye  were  always  concerned  about  Dermod." 

"I  don't  remember,"  said  Norah,  who  was  standing  at 
the  door  of  the  shed. 

"The  old  mad  farmer  was  goin'  to  cheat  us  out  of  a 
tanner,  anyway,"  said  Micky's  Jim.  "But  I  soon  put  up 
my  fives  to  him.  'Smell  them  fists,'  I  says  to  him " 

"Ye  never  stop  talkin'  about  fights,"  said  Biddy  Wor. 

"That's  the  kind  of  him,"  said  Maire  a  Glan.  "His 
people  had  the  contrary  drop  in  their  veins  always.  D'ye 
mind,  Norah  Ryan,  the  way  that " 

But  when  the  old  woman  looked  round  Norah  had  dis- 
appeared. She  had  stolen  out  through  the  starlight  to  her 
bed,  her  mind  groping  blindly  with  a  terrible  mystery 
which  she  could  not  fathom. 


I 


CHAPTER    XXI 

REGRETS 


N  the  June  of  the  following  year  Norah  Ryan  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  Scotland.    It  ran : 


"47,  Ann  Street, 

"Cowcaddens, 

"Glasgow. 

"My  DEAR  NORAH, 

"It  is  a  long  while  now  since  you  heard  a  word 
from  me.  I  often  intended  to  write  to  you,  but  my  hand 
was  not  used  to  the  pen ;  it  comes  foreign  to  my  fingers. 
I  am  not  like  you,  a  scholart  that  was  so  long  at  the 
Glenmornan  school-house  with  Master  Diver. 

"I  am  working  away  here  in  Scotland,  the  black  coun- 
try with  the  cold  heart.  I  have  only  met  one  of  the 
Glenmornan  people  for  a  long  while.  That  was  Oiney 
Dinchy's  son,  Thady,  and  he's  a  dock  labourer  on  the 
quay.  He  told  me  all  about  the  people  at  home.  He 
said  that  poor  Maire  a  Crick,  God  rest  her  soul !  is  dead. 
Do  you  mind  the  night  on  Dooey  Head  long  ago  ?  Them 
was  the  bad  and  bitter  times.  He  said  that  Father 
Devaney  has  furnished  his  new  house  and  the  cost  of  it 
was  thousands  of  pounds,  a  big  lot  for  a  poor  parish  to 
pay.  He  also  told  me  that  you  were  over  with  the  potato 
squad  in  Scotland  and  that  you  were  looked  on  with  no 
unkindly  eyes  by  a  rich  farmer's  son.  But  whoever  he 
is  or  whatever  he  is,  you  are  too  good  for  him,  for  it  is 
yourself  that  was  always  the  comely  girl  with  the  pleasant 
ways.  Whatever  you  do,  child,  watch  yourself  anyway, 

197 


198  The  Rat-Pit 

for  the  men  that  are  in  black  foreign  parts  are  not  to  have 
the  great  trust  put  in  them. 

"Mac  Oiney  Dinchy  was  saying  that  no  word  has  come 
from  Dermod  Flynn  for  a  long  time.  He  didn't  send 
much  money  home  to  his  own  people  and  they  think  that 
he  has  gone  to  the  bad.  Well,  for  all  they  say,  Dermod 
was  a  taking  lad  when  I  knew  him. 

"And  old  Farley  McKeown — the  Lord  be  between  us 
and  harm ! — got  married !  What  will  we  see  next  ?  I 
wonder  what  an  old  dry  stick  like  him  wants  to  get  mar- 
ried for;  and  Mac  Oiney  Dinchy  says  that  he  gave  his 
wife  sixty  thousand  pounds  as  a  wedding  present.  Well, 
well! 

"I  do  be  lonely  here  often,  and  I  am  wishful  that  you 
would  take  up  the  pen  and  write  me  a  long  letter  when 
you  get  this  one,  and  if  ever  you  come  to  Scotland  again 
come  to  Glasgow  and  spend  a  couple  of  days  with  me. 

"Hoping  that  yourself  and  your  mother  is  in  good 
health,  "SHEILA  CARROL." 

"Who  would  that  letter  be  from?"  asked  Mary  Ryan 
from  her  seat  in  the  chimney  corner.  A  pile  of  dead 
ashes  lay  on  the  hearth;  the  previous  summer  had  been 
wet  and  the  turf  was  not  lifted  from  the  bog. 

"It's  from  Sheila  Carrol,  mother." 

"From  that  woman,  child!  And  what  would  she  be 
writing  to  you  for,  Norah  ?" 

"She's  dying  to  hear  from  the  Frosses  people,"  an- 
swered the  girl.  "And  it  is  very  lonely  away  in  the  big 
city." 

"Lonely!"  exclaimed  the  mother.  "If  she  is  lonely 
it's  her  own  fault.  It's  the  hand  of  God  that's  heavy  on 
her  because  of  her  sin." 

"That's  no  reason  why  the  tongue  of  her  country  peo- 
ple should  be  bitter  against  her." 

"Saying  that,  child!"  cried  the  woman.  "What's 
comin'  over  you  at  all,  girsha  ?  Never  let  me  hear  of  you 
writing  to  that  woman !" 


Regrets  199 

Norah  went  to  the  door  and  looked  at  the  calm  sea 
stretching  out  far  below.  The  waves  were  bright  under 
the  glance  of  the  sun;  a  dark  boat,  a  little  speck  in  the 
distance,  was  moving  out  towards  the  bar. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Norah?"  asked  the  woman  at 
the  fire. 

"Down  to  the  sea,  mother,"  answered  the  girl  as  she 
made  her  way  towards  the  beach. 


II 

BETWEEN  the  ragged  rocks  the  grass  was  soft  to  the 
feet  and  refreshing  to  the  eyes.  Two  lone  syca- 
more trees  showed  green  against  the  sky;  a  few  stray 
leaves,  shrivelled  and  filed  through  by  caterpillars,  were 
fluttering  to  the  earth.  A  long  fairy-thimble  stalk,  partly 
despoiled  by  some  heedless  child  but  still  bearing  three 
beautiful  bells  at  the  extreme  top,  whipped  backwards 
and  forwards  in  the  wind,  and  Norah,  reaching  forward, 
pulled  off  one  of  the  flowers  and  pinned  it  to  her  breast. 

The  tide  was  on  the  turn.  The  girl  sat  on  a  rock  by 
the  shore  and  put  her  small  brown  feet  in  the  water. 
Down  under  the  moving  waves  they  looked  as  if  they 
didn't  belong  to  her  at  all.  Here  it  was  very  quiet;  the 
universal  silence  magnified  the  tranquillity  of  things.  Un- 
der the  girl's  feet  it  was  very  deep,  very  dark,  and  very 
peaceful ;  there,  where  a  reflected  swallow  swept  through 
a  wide  expanse  of  mirrored  blue,  in  the  sea  under  her, 
were  no  regrets,  no  heart-sickness,  and  no  sorrow.  When 
the  tide  went  out  a  fair  young  body,  a  white  face  with 
closed  eyes  would  lie  on  the  strand.  Then  the  Presses  peo- 
ple would  know  why  the  terrible  phantom,  Death,  was 
courted  by  a  girl. 

"It  was  all  a  great  mistake,"  she  said  to  herself,  and 


200  The  Rat-Pit 

in  the  excitement  caused  by  the  stress  of  thought  she 
sank  her  nails  into  her  palms.  The  memory  of  a  night 
passed  seven  months  before  came  vividly  to  her  mind. 
How  many  tearful  nights  had  gone  by  since  then !  How 
many  times  had  she  written  to  Alec  Morrison  telling  him 
of  her  plight!  No  answer  had  come;  the  man  was  in- 
different. 

"I  wasn't  the  girl  for  the  likes  of  him,  anyway,"  said 
Norah,  looking  at  her  feet  in  the  water.  "But  why  has 
all  this  happened  to  me?" 

As  in  all  great  crises  of  a  person's  life,  there  came  a 
moment  of  vivid  consciousness  to  Norah  and  every  sur- 
rounding object  stamped  itself  indelibly  on  her  mind.  The 
tide  was  sweeping  slowly  out;  the  seaweed  in  the  pool 
beneath  swayed  like  the  hair  of  a  dead  body  floating  in 
the  water.  Two  little  fish  with  wide-open  eyes  looked 
up  and  seemed  to  be  staring  at  her.  Beneath  in  the  wa- 
ter the  fleecy  clouds  looked  like  little  white  spots  against 
the  blue  of  the  mirrored  sky,  and  the  bar  moaned  loudly 
on  the  frontier  of  the  deep  sea. 

"No  matter  what  I  do  now,  no  one  will  think  me 
worse  than  I  am,"  said  the  poor  girl.  "I'll  have  no  joy 
no  more  in  my  life,  for  there's  no  happiness  that  I  can 
look  forward  to." 

She  pulled  the  fairy  thimbles  from  her  breast  and 
crushed  them  in  her  hand.  Out  near  the  bar  she  could 
see  the  little  black  boat  heaving  on  the  waves.  Norah 
rose  to  her  feet. 

How  dark  the  water  looked  under  her.  The  sand 
sloped  sharply  from  her  feet  to  the  bottom  of  the  pool, 
which  was  bedded  with  sharp  rocks  covered  with  trail- 
ing, slimy  seaweed.  She  peered  in,  catching  her  breath 
sharply  as  she  did  so.  Then  one  little  brown  foot  went 
further  into  the  water,  afterwards  the  other.  She  bent 
down,  cut  the  water  apart  with  her  hands ;  a  slight  ripple 


Regrets  201 

spread  out  on  both  sides  and  was  lost  almost  as  soon  as 
it  was  formed. 

"Jesus,  Mary,  and  Joseph,  pray  for  me  a  sinner  now 
and  at  the  hour  of  my  death,  Amen,"  she  said,  repeating 
a  prayer  which  had  flowed  countless  times  since  child- 
hood from  her  lips. 

A  sudden  thought  struck  her  and  a  look  of  perplexity 
overspread  her  face.  "This  is  pilin'  one  sin  on  top  of  the 
other,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice  and  looked  round,  fearing 
that  somebody  had  overheard  her.  Everything  about 
was  silent  as  if  in  fear ;  in  that  moment  she  thought  that 
the  sea  had  ceased  to  move,  the  swallow  to  circle,  herself 
even  to  live;  the  world  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  some- 
thing— an  event  of  great  and  terrible  purport,  hidden  and 
unknown. 

Suddenly  the  child  that  was  in  her  leapt  under  her 
heart  and  a  keen  but  not  unpleasant  pain  swept  through 
her  body.  She  drew  back  from  the  pool,  horror-stricken 
at  the  thing  which  she  intended  to  do. 

"I'll  go  home,"  she  said  meekly,  as  if  obeying  some 
command.  "Maybe  he'll  have  pity  on  me  when  I  go 
over  again  beyond  the  water.  This  day  week  Micky's 
Jim,  he  goes  again.  And  I  can  go  to  Sheila  Carrol.  She 
knows  and  she  has  the  good  heart.  God  in  His  heaven 
have  pity  on  me  and  all  that's  like  me !  for  it's  the  igno- 
rant girl  that  I  was.  ...  If  anyone  had  told  me.  .  .  . 
But  I  knew  nothin',  nothin',  and  I'm  black  now  in  the 
eyes  of  God  as  I'll  soon  be  black  in  the  eyes  of  the  world, 
of  Dermod  Flynn,  of  me  mother  and  everybody  that 
knows  me.  Nobody  will  speak  to  me  then  atall,  atall !" 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ON  THE  ROAD 


A  DEAD  weight  lay  on  Norah's  heart ;  the  child  be- 
neath her  heart  was  a  burden.  But  even  yet  (it 
was  now  the  month  of  August)  those  in  Micky's 
Jim's  squad  did  not  suspect  her  condition.  She  knew, 
however,  that  she  could  not  conceal  her  plight  much 
longer,  and  she  wanted  to  run  away  and  hide.  How 
could  she  endure  the  glance  of  her  country  people,  of 
Micky's  Jim  and  Maire  a  Glan,  when  the  truth  became 
known  ? 

The  squad  would  soon  set  off  to  Morrison's.  Things 
would  go  well  if  once  she  got  there,  she  assured  herself. 
At  present  she  wished  that  she  had  someone  to  confide 
in,  somebody  to  whom  she  could  tell  her  story.  But  in 
the  squad  there  was  none  whom  she  could  take  into  her 
confidence.  The  old  women  from  Glenmornan  and 
Frosses,  brimful  of  a  narrow,  virtuous  simplicity,  were 
not  the  ones  to  sympathise  with  her;  they  would  only 
condemn.  If  Gourock  Ellen  was  here,  Norah  felt  that 
she  could  sigh  her  misfortune  into  that  woman's  heart; 
but  neither  Gourock  Ellen  nor  Annie  had  turned  up  for 
the  last  two  years,  and  nobody  knew  what  had  become 
of  them. 

One  day  Norah  felt  that  her  secret  was  discovered. 
No  one  spoke  of  it;  no  one  hinted  at  her  condition,  but 

202 


On  the  Road  203 

all  at  once  a  curious  feeling  of  restraint,  of  suspicion, 
charged  the  atmosphere  of  the  barn  and  potato  field. 
Whenever  she  asked  a  question  those  to  whom  she  spoke 
fixed  on  her  a  stare  of  thinly- veiled  pity,  not  pity  in 
essence  but  in  design,  before  replying.  Once  or  twice 
when  ploughing  through  the  fields,  her  head  bent  upon 
her  work,  she  glanced  round  covertly  to  see  the  eyes  of 
everybody  in  the  squad  fixed  on  her.  No  one  spoke  and 
all  silently  resumed  their  work  when  she  looked  at  them. 
The  silence  terrified  and  crushed  the  girl.  "How  much 
do  they  know?"  she  asked  herself.  That  afternoon  as 
she  ploughed  her  way  through  the  wet  fields  Micky's 
Jim  came  up  and  stood  behind  her.  Instinctively  she 
knew  that  he  was  going  to  speak  and  she  waited  his 
words  in  fear  and  trembling. 

"Norah  Ryan,"  he  said,  and  his  words  came  out  very 
slowly,  "who  is  to  blame?  Is  it " 

Jim  bent  down,  lifted  a  potato  which  she  had  passed 
over,  threw  it  into  the  barrel  and  left  the  sentence  unfin- 
ished. 

It  was  Friday,  the  day  on  which  the  weekly  wages  of 
the  party  were  paid.  That  night,  when  Norah  received 
her  money,  she  stole  away  from  the  squad  intending  to 
call  on  Alec  Morrison. 

II 

IT  was  the  last  day  of  August.  The  swallows  and 
swifts  circled  above  Norah's  head  and  from  time  to 
time  swept  down  over  the  sodden  pastures  where  the 
farm  cattle  were  grazing.  The  birds  snapped  greedily  at 
the  awkward  crane-flies  that  were  now  rising  on  their 
great  September  flights.  Morrison's  farm  was  twenty 
miles  distant,  and  not  wanting  to  spend  the  money  which 
she  had  earned  at  her  work,  Norah  travelled  all  night 


204  The  Rat-Pit 

long.  In  the  morning  she  found  that  she  had  lost  her 
way  and  had  to  retrace  her  steps  for  full  seven  miles  in 
order  to  regain  her  former  course.  At  a  wayside  post- 
office  she  sent  half  the  money  in  her  possession  home  to 
her  mother.  Late  in  the  evening,  feeling  footsore  and 
very  weary,  she  came  to  the  farm.  Although  she  had 
not  eaten  food  since  leaving  the  squad  she  did  not  feel 
in  the  least  hungry.  Now  and  again  dizziness  seized  her, 
however,  and  a  sharp  pain  kept  tapping  as  if  with  a 
hammer  in  her  head. 

"Everything  will  be  all  right  now,"  she  said  as  she 
saw  the  lights  of  the  farm  glowing  through  the  haze  of 
the  evening,  but  for  all  that  she  said  the  grave  doubts 
which  weighed  upon  her  could  not  be  shaken  away.  She 
entered  the  farmyard.  A  few  stars  were  out  in  the  sky, 
a  low  wind  swept  round  the  newly-built  hayrick  and  the 
scent  of  hay  filled  her  nostrils.  Alec  would  surely  be  at 
home.  She  uttered  the  word  "Alec"  aloud;  she  had 
never  given  it  utterance  in  his  presence,  she  recollected, 
and  wondered  why  she  thought  of  that  now. 

The  windows  of  the  house  were  lighted  up,  and  a  long 
stream  of  light  quivered  out  into  the  darkness.  Norah 
approached  the  door,  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  the 
shiny  brass  knocker  but  refrained  from  lifting  it.  She 
was  very  frightened ;  the  heart  within  her  fluttered  like 
a  little  bird  that  struggles  violently  against  the  bars  of 
the  cage  in  whicb  it  is  imprisoned.  One  frail  white  hand 
was  slowly  lifted  to  the  knocker;  between  the  girl's  fin- 
gers it  felt  very  cold  and  she  let  it  go  without  moving 
it.  A  great  weariness  had  gripped  her  limbs,  and  her 
hand,  heavy  and  dead,  seemed  as  if  it  did  not  belong  to 
her. 

She  came  away  from  the  door  and  approached  the 
window.  She  could  hear  loud  laughter  from  the  inside 
and  somebody  was  playing  on  the  piano.  A  dark  blind 


On  the  Road  205 

hid  the  interior  of  the  room  from  her  view,  but  the  light 
streaming  out  showed  where  the  blind  had  been  dis- 
placed at  one  corner,  and  pressing  her  brow  against  the 
pane  Norah  looked  in. 

The  piano  suddenly  ceased ;  a  frail  shadow  came  be- 
tween the  light  and  the  window ;  then  a  young  and  beau- 
tiful girl  passed  like  a  vision  across  the  stretch  of  room 
open  to  the  watcher's  eyes.  Norah's  glance  took  in  the 
girl  for  a  moment ;  she  noticed  a  fair  head  firmly  poised, 
a  small  hand  raised  to  brush  back  the  tresses  that  fell 
down  over  a  white  brow.  Even  as  the  small  hand  was 
raised,  a  hand,  larger,  but  almost  as  white,  reached  out 
and  the  fingers  of  the  girl  were  gripped  in  a  firm  em- 
brace. 

Norah  started  violently,  hitting  her  head  sharply 
against  the  window-pane,  and  with  difficulty  restraining 
the  cry  that  rose  to  her  lips.  The  hand,  white  as  a 
woman's  almost,  with  the  glittering  ring  on  the  middle 
finger,  how  well  she  knew  it.  And  who  was  the  fair 
girl,  the  fleeting  and  beautiful  vision  on  whom  she  looked 
in  from  the  cold  and  darkness  of  the  night?  Norah  did 
not  know,  but  instinctively  she  felt  rising  in  her  heart 
a  great  resentment  against  the  woman  in  the  room. 
Hatred  filled  her  soul ;  her  breath  came  sharply  through 
her  nostrils  and  a  mist  gathered  before  her  eyes. 

"I'm  not  goin'  to  cry!"  she  said  defiantly,  and  began 
to  weep  silently  even  as  she  spoke. 

A  withered  husk  of  moon  crept  up  the  sky;  a  dying 
wind  moaned  feebly  on  the  roof  overhead  and  on  the 
ground  beneath  the  girl's  feet ;  a  blundering  moth  struck 
sharply  against  her  face,  fell  to  the  ground,  rose  slowly 
and  as  slowly  disappeared.  All  around  was  the  vast 
breathing  silence  of  the  infinite,  the  mystery  of  the  world. 

Norah  looked  into  the  room  again  and  old  Farmer  Mor- 
rison was  facing  her,  a  long  white  pipe  in  his  mouth  and 


206  The  Rat-Pit 

a  starched  collar  under  his  chin.  A  broad  grin  over- 
spread his  face,  and  he  looked  like  a  fat,  serious  frog 
that  had  suddenly  begun  to  smile.  The  upturned  end  of 
the  blind  slowly  fluttered  down  and  the  whole  interior 
of  the  room  was  hidden  from  the  girl's  eyes. 

"Here  am  I  out  in  the  cold,  and  everyone  is  happy 
inside,"  said  the  poor  girl,  pressing  her  hand  tightly 
against  her  breast  as  she  spoke.  "What  was  I  doin'  atall, 
atall,  when  I  was  here  before?  How  I  call  to  mind  that 
night  of  all  nights,  a  dear  night  to  me !  And  it  is  forever 
written  red  in  my  soul  .  .  .  There  he's  in  there  and  in 
there  is  another  girl — not  me.  I'm  out  here  in  the  cold 
.  .  .  Mother  of  God !  What  am  I  to  do  ?" 

Norah  went  back  from  the  window,  caring  nothing 
for  the  noise  she  made ;  caring  little  for  what  might  now 
happen  to  her.  Her  face  twitched,  her  breath  stressed 
through  her  nostrils,  her  shoulders  rose  slowly  and  fell 
rapidly.  The  breeze  gathered  strength ;  it  swept  as  if  in 
a  light  passion  around  the  farmyard  and  caused  the  girl's 
skirts  to  cling  closely  about  her  legs.  She  leant  for  sup- 
port against  the  shed  in  which  Micky's  Jim  and  his  squad 
had  taken  up  their  quarters  so  often.  How  bare  and 
lonely  the  place  looked  now !  Somewhere  in  the  far  cor- 
ner a  rat  was  gnawing  at  the  woodwork  with  its  sharp 
teeth;  presently  it  ran  out  into  the  open,  moving  along 
rapidly,  but  as  softly  as  a  piece  of  velvet  trailed  on  pol- 
ished wood. 

At  that  moment  an  intense  and  sudden  revulsion  of 
feeling  took  place  within  Norah.  She  was  filled  with  a 
strange  dislike  for  everything  and  everybody.  A  great 
change  began  to  operate  in  her  soul.  In  one  vivid  flash 
the  whole  world  lay  as  if  naked  before  her.  Man  lived 
for  pleasure  only ;  he  had  no  thought  for  others ;  he  cared 
only  for  himself,  his  passions  and  desires.  What  had  she 
been  doing  all  her  life?  Working  for  others,  slaving 


On  the  Road  207 

that  others  might  be  happy.  She  worked  to  bring  money 
to  the  landlord  (ah !  the  dresses  that  the  landlord's  daugh- 
ters wore!),  to  Farley  McKeown  (ah!  the  lady  that  got 
sixty  thousand  pounds  to  become  his  wife!),  and  to  the 
priest  (ah!  the  big  mansion  and  the  many  rooms!).  At 
this  awful  moment  she  dared  not  go  to  one  of  her  people 
for  help.  Even  her  mother  would  give  her  the  cold  glance 
if  she  went  home;  she  might  shut  the  very  door  in  her 
daughter's  face.  There  was  nobody  to  care  for  her — but 
even  at  that  moment  she  recollected  Gourock  Ellen  and 
Sheila  Carrol,  and  felt  that  in  these  two  women  great 
wells  of  sympathy  were  open  and  at  these  she  might 
refresh  her  weary  soul. 

Before  her  for  an  instant  the  world  lay  exposed  to  its 
very  core;  then  as  if  by  a  falling  curtain  the  sight  was 
hidden  again  from  her  eyes  and  she  found  herself,  a 
lonely  little  girl,  leaning  against  the  cold  wall,  her  head 
sunk  on  her  breast  and  her  numb  fingers,  that  almost 
lacked  feeling,  pressing  against  the  rough  masonry  of  the 
shed.  A  great  wave  of  self-pity  surged  through  the  girl 
and  she  burst  into  tears. 

She  took  no  heed  of  the  voice  near  her,  did  not  see 
the  dark  forms  which  stood  beside  her,  and  only  started 
violently  and  looked  round  when  a  hand  was  laid  upon 
her  shoulder.  Two  persons,  a  man  and  a  woman,  were 
looking  at  her.  But  even  then  in  the  terrible  isolation  of 
her  own  thoughts  she  took  little  heed  of  the  strangers. 
She  gazed  at  them  vacantly  for  a  moment,  then  turned 
towards  the  wall  again  as  if  nothing  interested  her  but 
the  bleak  shed  and  the  rats  squeaking  in  the  corner. 
When,  after  a  moment,  the  strange  woman  ventured  to 
speak,  Norah  looked  round  in  surprise.  She  had  forgot- 
ten all  about  the  two  people.  Recollection  of  having  seen 
them  before  came  to  her ;  they  were  the  man  and  woman 


208  The  Rat-Pit 

that  had  made  such  an  impression  on  Morrison  when  he 
viewed  them  sleeping  in  the  pig-sty. 

"What's  wrong  with  ye?"  asked  the  woman  in  a  not 
unkindly  voice.  Norah  could  detect  the  odour  of  whisky 
in  her  breath  and  concluded  that  both  the  man  and 
woman  were  drunk. 

"Poor  girl !"  said  the  man  when  Norah  did  not  answer. 
He  looked  closely  at  her  and  seemed  to  understand  her 
plight.  "Poor  lassie!"  he  repeated.  .  .  .  "Where's  yer 
folk  ?  Ah,  I  know  who  ye  are,  for  I  saw  ye  before.  Ye 
were  here  with  the  tattie  diggers  last  year,  weren't  ye?" 

"Come  doon  to  the  shed  with  us,"  said  the  woman. 
"It's  warmer  there  than  here." 

The  woman  took  the  girl  gently  but  firmly  by  the  hand 
and  led  her  into  the  sty  in  which  herself  and  the  man 
lived.  Norah  made  no  protest  and  followed  the  woman 
without  a  word.  In  the  dwelling-place  of  the  man  and 
woman  it  was  very  dark  and  rats  were  scampering  all 
over  the  place. 

"Jean,"  said  the  man  on  hearing  the  scurrying  in  the 
corner,  "rats!" 

"Last  night  they  ate  all  our  food,"  said  the  woman. 

"Last  night,  Jean?"  interrogated  the  man. 

"The  night  before,"  the  woman  corrected. 

The  man  drew  a  match  from  his  pocket,  rubbed  it  on 
his  trousers  and  lit  a  candle  stuck  in  the  neck  of  a  black 
bottle  which  stood  on  the  floor.  Near  it  a  small  pile  of 
wood,  hemmed  with  a  few  lumps  of  coal,  was  ready  for 
lighting.  To  this  the  man  applied  the  match  and  in  a  few 
minutes  the  fire  was  burning  brightly.  A  dark  smoke 
rose  to  the  roof,  which  was  broken  in  several  places ; 
something  small  like  a  bird  fluttered  out  from  the  rafters 
and  whirred  in  the  air  above. 

"Jean,"  said  the  man,  "a  blind  bat!" 

"Sit  doon  here,  lass,"  said  the  woman,  drawing  for- 


On  the  Road  209 

ward  a  splintered  chest  and  placing  it  beside  Norah. 
"We'll  gie  ye  somethin'  to  eat  in  a  meenit.  Are  ye 
hungry  ?" 

"Not  hungry,"  said  Norah,  sitting  down  on  the  box, 
"but  dry." 

"This  is  what  ye  need,"  said  the  man,  drawing  a  bottle 
from  his  pocket  and  handing  it  to  the  girl. 

"I  don't  drink,"  said  Norah.    "I've  the  pledge." 

"Jean,"  said  the  man,  looking  at  his  wife  and  point- 
ing to  a  tin  porringer  which  lay  on  the  ground  beside  him, 
"water." 

The  woman  went  out  and  returned  in  a  few  minutes 
with  a  porringer  of  water  which  she  handed  to  Norah, 
who  drank  deeply. 

"Jean,"  said  the  man,  uncorking  the  bottle  which  he 
held  in  his  hand,  "drink!"  The  woman  returned  the 
bottle  when  she  had  drunk  a  mouthful. 

"Jean,  tea!" 

The  woman  emptied  the  porringer  from  which  Norah 
had  drunk  and  went  out  again. 

"She's  a  rare  body  that !"  said  the  man  to  Norah  when 
the  woman  clattered  away  through  the  darkness.  "I  like 

her,  I  like  her — like "  he  paused  for  a  moment  and 

bit  the  nail  of  his  thumb ;  "like  blazes !"  he  concluded. 

Norah  looked  round  and  took  a  sudden  interest  in  the 
place.  An  instinctive  liking  for  this  man  and  woman 
crept  into  her  soul.  True  they  were  both  half -tipsy,  and 
the  man  now  and  again  without  any  apparent  reason  ut- 
tered words  which  were  not  nice  to  hear. 

"Yer  wife  is  a  kindly  woman,"  said  Norah,  breaking 
through  the  barriers  of  her  silence. 

"Wife !"  said  the  man  and  laughed  a  trifle  awkwardly. 
"Wife !  Well,  I  suppose  it  is  all  the  same." 

The  man  was  a  stunted  little  fellow,  unshaven  and 
ragged,  but  his  shoulders  were  very  broad.  The  little 


210  The  Rat-Pit 

finger  of  his  left  hand  was  missing  and  his  toes  peeped 
out  through  his  boots.  His  teeth  were  stained  a  dirty 
yellow  with  tobacco  juice. 

"It's  not  much  of  a  place,  this,"  he  said.  "We  never 
have  much  company  here  'cept  the  bat  that  lives  in  the 
rafters  and  the  wind  that  comes  in  by  the  door  and  the 
stars  that  look  down  through  the  roof." 

He  laughed  loudly,  but  seeing  that  Norah  did  not  join 
in  his  laughter,  he  suddenly  became  silent.  Norah's  eyes 
again  roved  round  the  place.  It  was  dirty  and  squalid, 
well  in  keeping  with  the  occupants.  A  potato  barrel  stood 
in  one  corner;  beside  it  was  a  pile  of  straw  covered  with 
a  few  dirty  bags.  This  was  the  bed.  The  guttering 
candle  gleamed  feebly  in  the  corner  and  the  grease  ran 
down  the  bottle.  Overhead  the  bat  was  still  fluttering 
madly,  hitting  against  the  joists  every  moment. 

The  woman  re-entered  the  shed  and  placed  the  por- 
ringer of  water  on  the  fire ;  the  man  went  to  the  barrel, 
lifted  the  bag  which  served  as  a  cover,  and  brought  out 
little  packets  of  food. 

"Can  I  be  of  any  help  to  you?"  asked  Norah,  rising 
to  her  feet. 

"Ye're  tired  and  worn,"  said  the  woman. 

"Jean,"  said  the  man,  "don't  let  the  lass  work." 

Norah  sat  down  again.  A  box  came  from  the  dark 
recess  of  the  room;  the  woman  wiped  it  with  her  apron 
and  laid  it  on  the  floor  by  the  fire.  The  man  placed  a 
loaf,  some  sugar,  a  piece  of  butter,  and  a  tin  mug  on  the 
table. 

"Donal,"  said  the  woman  suddenly,  "milk." 

The  man  went  out  and  returned  in  about  ten  minutes 
with  some  warm  milk  at  the  bottom  of  a  large  wooden 
pail. 

"We  just  get  a  wee  drop  from  the  farmer's  cows  when 
there's  nobody  about,"  he  explained. 


On  the  Road  211 

When  tea  was  ready  the  girl  was  handed  the  tin  por- 
ringer filled  to  the  brim;  the  pannikin  in  which  the  tea 
was  made  served  the  other  two,  both  drinking  from  the 
vessel  in  turn.  Norah  ate  the  bread  greedily;  she  felt 
very  hungry.  The  man  and  woman  had  recourse  to  the 
bottle  once  more  when  the  meal  was  finished. 

"Where  is  the  tattie  squad  now  ?"  asked  Donal. 

"Down  at  G farm,  near  S ,"  answered  Norah. 

"Donal,  dinna  speir,"  said  the  woman  in  a  sharp  voice. 

"Jean,  haud  yer  tongue,"  answered  the  man,  but  he 
did  not  press  the  question  when  he  noticed  a  startled  look 
steal  into  Norah's  eyes. 

"Things  maun  be  some  way,"  said  the  woman  in  a 
voice  of  consolation,  though  she  seemed  to  be  addressing 
nobody  in  particular,  "and  things  will  happen." 

"There's  great  goings-on  in  there,"  said  Donal,  point- 
ing his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the 
farmhouse.  "Morrison's  son  has  been  and  engaged  to  a 
young  lady.  Happen  that  ye  may  have  seen  the  young 
man  when  ye  were  here  afore." 

Norah  looked  at  Donal  straight  in  the  eyes  and  he  felt 
that  she  was  seeing  through  him  into  a  world  far  beyond. 
The  man  looked  at  Jean ;  their  glances  met  and  a  message 
flashed  between  them. 

"Him !"  said  the  woman. 

"The  feckless  rascal !"  exclaimed  the  man. 

He  threw  another  lump  of  coal  into  the  fire,  kicked  the 
others  into  a  riotous  blaze,  shook  up  the  straw  in  the 
corner  and  spread  out  the  blankets  and  bags. 

"Bed,  lassie,"  he  said  to  Norah,  pointing  at  the  straw. 

"But  where'll  yerselves  sleep  ?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Jean,  where'll  we  doss?" 

"By  the  fire,"  answered  the  woman. 

"But  it'll  be  wrong  of  me,"  said  Norah ;  then  stopped 
and  left  the  words  that  rose  to  her  tongue  unuttered. 


212  The  Rat-Pit 

Sleep  was  stealing  over  her ;  she  shut  her  eyes.  A  gentle 
arm  was  laid  on  her  shoulders ;  she  rose,  because  a  voice 
suggested  that  she  should  rise,  and  afterwards  found  her- 
self lying  on  the  bed  of  straw. 

A  vision  of  a  lighted  window  came  to  her;  she  was 
looking  in  at  the  man  she  loved  and  his  lips  were  press- 
ing those  of  another  woman.  Then  scenes  and  objects 
vague  and  indistinct  passed  before  her  eyes,  big  dark 
shadows  mustered  together  in  the  centre  of  the  roof 
above  her,  then  other  shadows  from  all  sides  rushed  in 
and  joined  together,  trembled  and  became  blended  in 
complete  obscurity.  Norah  fell  asleep. 

"Poor  lassie!"  said  Donal,  throwing  himself  down  on 
the  floor  by  the  fire,  "poor  lassie !" 

"God  have  pity  on  her,"  said  the  woman ;  "and  her  sic 
a  comely  lass !" 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

COMPLICATIONS 


ON  the  night  of  Norah's  arrival  at  the  steading 
Alec  Morrison  slept  well,  but  wakened  with  the 
dawn  and  sat  up  betimes.  He  was  very  pleased 
with  himself  and  his  position  at  the  bank;  things  had 
gone  well,  his  father  had  doubled  his  allowance,  and  on 
the  strength  of  that  the  young  man  had  become  engaged. 
He  had  broken  with  the  little  girl  in  Glasgow;  for 
while  admiring  her  good  looks  he  deplored  her  lack  of 
intelligence.  She  spent  a  great  deal  of  her  time  in  dress- 
ing herself,  and  Morrison  knew  that  there  would  come  a 
day  when  dresses  would  not  please,  when  a  husband 
would  require  something  more  worthy  of  respect,  some- 
thing more  enduring  than  pretty  looks  and  gaudy  gar- 
ments. Besides  this  drawback  there  was  another.  The 
girl,  who  took  her  good  looks  from  her  mother,  long 
dead,  had  a  grasping,  greedy  father  whom  nobody  could 
love  or  admire.  Morrison  had  met  him  twice  and  dis- 
liked him  immensely.  He  was  a  dirty  little  man  and  gen- 
erally had  three  days'  growth  of  hair  on  his  chin.  When 
shaking  hands  his  thumb  described  a  curious  backward 
turn,  forming  into  a  loop  like  one  of  those  on  the  letter 
S.  The  daughter  had  the  same  peculiarity.  Before  meet- 
ing the  father  this  movement  of  the  girl's  thumb  amused 
Morrison ;  afterwards  it  disgusted  him.  Finally  he  took 

213 


214  The  Rat-Pit 

his  departure  and  again  got  into  tow  with  Ellen  Keenans, 
the  live  woman  with  advanced  views  ten  years  ahead  of 
her  age.  Morrison  fell  in  love  easily,  indifferently  al- 
most. He  was  an  attractive  young  man,  well  built  and 
muscular,  who  cultivated  the  art  of  dress  with  consid- 
erable care.  All  good-looking  women  fascinated  him,  but 
none  held  him  captive  for  very  long.  He  had  become 
engaged  to  the  girl  with  the  advanced  ideas  and  took  her 
to  his  people's  home.  The  old  farmer  liked  her  but  did 
not  understand  many  of  the  things  of  which  she  spoke. 
That  was  not  to  be  wondered  at,  seeing  that  he  was  a 
plain,  blunt  man,  although  a  gentleman  farmer,  and  the 
girl  was  ten  years  ahead  of  her  time. 


II 

ALEC  MORRISON,  the  sleep  gone  entirely  from  his 
eyes,  his  face  a  little  red  after  shaving,  came  down- 
stairs to  the  breakfast-room.  Ellen  Keenans  was  sitting 
on  the  sofa,  a  book  in  her  hand. 

"Up  already,  dear?"  asked  Morrison,  and  bent  to  kiss 
the  girl.v  She  laid  down  the  book  which  she  had  been 
reading  and  met  the  kiss  with  her  lips. 

"The  country  life  is  so  quiet,  so  refreshing;  one  cannot 
have  too  much  of  it,"  she  said,  drumming  idly  with  her 
fingers  on  the  edge  of  the  sofa. 

"What  are  you  reading,  dear?"  the  young  man  asked. 

"Kautsky's  Ethics  of  Materialist  Conception  of  His- 
tory." 

"Rather  a  big  thing  to  tackle  before  breakfast." 

She  cast  a  look  of  reproof  at  the  young  man,  lifted  the 
book  from  the  table,  then,  as  if  something  occurred  to 
her,  laid  it  down  again. 

"You  haven't  read  it,  I  bet,"  she  said;  then  before  he 


Complications  215 

could  answer:  "You  promised  last  night  to  let  me  see 
some  queer  people — " 

"Wrecks  of  the  social  system." 

" — who  live  on  this  farm." 

"An  old  man  and  woman,"  said  Morrison.  "A  quaint 
pair  they  are,  stunted  and  seedy.  They  seem  to  have  no 
souls,  but  I  suppose  deep  down  within  them  there  is  some 
eternal  goodness,  some  fundamental  virtue." 

"Who  are  you  quoting  ?"  asked  the  girl,  getting  to  her 
feet.  "Where  are  these  two  people?" 

"In  an  outhouse  near  by,"  he  told  her.  "It's  terrible 
the  abyss  to  which  some  people  sink,"  he  went  on.  "How 
many  of  these  derelicts  might  be  saved  if  some  restrain- 
ing hand  was  reached  out  to  help  them,  if  some  charitable 
soul  would  take  pity  on  them." 

"When  did  you  begin  to  look  upon  charity  as  a  means 
of  remedying  social  evils  ?"  asked  the  girl  almost  fiercely. 
"Charity  is  a  bribe  paid  to  the  maltreated  so  that  they 
may  hold  their  tongues." 

Morrison,  as  was  his  custom  when  the  girl  spoke  in 
that  manner,  became  silent. 

"In  here,"  he  said  when  they  arrived  at  the  dilapi- 
dated door  of  the  pig-sty. 

"In  there?"  questioned  the  girl  and  looked  at  Morri- 
son. 

Morrison  entered  with  rather  an  important  air ;  he  was 
showing  a  new  world  to  his  fair  companion.  The  girl 
hesitated  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  then  followed 
the  young  man  into  the  dark  interior. 

Donal  and  Jean  were  seated  at  the  fire  drinking  tea 
from  the  same  can.  On  a  small  and  dirty  board  which 
lay  on  the  ground  between  them  a  chunk  of  dry  bread  and 
a  little  lump  of  butter  could  be  seen.  The  two  occupants 
of  the  sty  took  very  little  notice  of  the  visitors ;  the  man 


216  The  Rat-Pit 

said  "Good-morning"  gruffly,  the  woman  looked  critic- 
ally at  the  girl's  dress  then  went  on  with  her  meal. 

"It  must  be  cold  here,"  said  the  young  girl,  looking 
curiously  round  and  noticing  a  streak  of  grey  daylight 
stealing  through  the  roof. 

"Jean,  is  it  cold  here  ?"  asked  the  man  by  the  fire,  biting 
the  end  of  his  crust. 

"As  cold  as  the  grave,"  answered  the  woman. 

Ellen  Keenans  looked  closely  at  the  speaker.  The 
broken  nose,  almost  on  a  level  with  her  face,  the  pock- 
marked flesh  of  the  cheeks  and  chin,  the  red  eyelids,  the 
watery,  expressionless  eyes  filled  the  young  lady  with 
nauseous  horror.  In  the  renovated  society  of  which  Ellen 
Keenans  dreamt,  this  woman  would  be  entirely  out  of 
place,  just  as  much  as  her  sweetheart  and  herself  with 
their  well-made  clothing,  their  soft  leather  shoes  and  gold 
rings,  were  out  of  place  here.  And  these  two  people,  the 
man  who  wolfed  up  his  bread  like  a  dog  and  the  woman 
with  the  disfigured  face,  might  have  something  great  and 
good  in  their  natures.  Alec  had  given  such  sentiments 
voice  often.  How  noble-minded  he  was,  she  thought. 

The  door  of  the  building  faced  east.  The  early  sun, 
rising  over  a  bank  of  grey  clouds,  suddenly  beamed  forth 
with  splendid  ray  and  lit  up  the  dark  interior  of  the  sty. 
This  beautiful  beam  disclosed  what  the  darkness  had 
hidden,  the  dirt  and  squalor  of  the  place. 

The  floor,  on  which  crawled  numberless  wood  lice  and 
beetles,  was  indented  with  holes  filled  with  filthy  smelling 
water,  and  the  blank  walls  were  literally  covered  with 
reddish  cockroaches.  The  sunlight  beamed  on  a  spider's 
web  hanging  from  the  roof;  the  thin  silky  threads  were 
covered  with  dead  insects.  Rats  had  burrowed  into  the 
base  of  the  walls  and  the  whole  building  was  permeated 
with  an  overpowering  and  unhealthy  odour.  Ellen 
Keenans  glanced  up  at  the  joists  where  the  sun-rays 


Complications  217 

struck  them,  then  down  the  stretch  of  dark  slimy  wall, 
down,  down  to  the  floor,  and  there,  in  bold  relief  against 
the  darkness,  she  saw  in  all  its  youthful  beauty  the  face 
of  a  sleeping  girl.  Ellen  turned  an  enquiring  glance  to  the 
woman  by  the  fire ;  then  to  Morrison,  whose  face  wore  a 
troubled  expression. 

"Who  have  you  here,  Donal  ?"  asked  the  young  man. 

"A  lass  that  we  found  greetin'  outside  your  door  last 
night,"  said  the  man,  this  time  not  appealing  to  Jean  for 
an  answer.  "Happen  that  ye  know  her  ?" 

The  two  by  the  fire  looked  at  the  young  couple.  The 
woman's  watery  eyes  took  on  a  new  expression;  they 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  become  charged  with  condemna- 
tion and  contempt. 

"Is  she  one  of  Jim  Scanlon's  squad?"  asked  Morrison. 
Although  putting  the  question  he  had  recognised  Norah 
instantly,  and  now  he  wished  to  be  away.  Donal  and 
Jean  looked  suddenly  terrible  in  his  eyes;  the  pity  he 
felt  for  them  a  moment  ago  now  gave  place  to  a  fear  for 
himself.  Odd  little  waves  of  expression  were  passing 
over  the  woman's  face  and  in  her  eyes  he  read  a  terrible 
accusation. 

"It  was  all  her  fault,  not  mine,"  he  muttered  under 
his  breath.  "That  night  and  the  dog  howling  and  the 
stars  out  above  us.  ...  But  it  was  all  her  own  fault. 
Why  did  she  keep  following  me  about  ?  She  might  have 
known  that  I  could  never  have  .  .  .  We'll  go  back  to  the 
house  now,"  he  said  aloud  to  Ellen  Keenans.  "We've 
seen  all  that  is  to  be  seen." 

The  girl  glanced  at  him  interrogatively,  curious.  "Who 
is  she  ?"  came  the  question. 

"Ye'll  soon  know,"  said  the  woman  by  the  fire,  rising 
and  going  to  the  shake-down  by  the  wall.  "Wake  up, 
lass !"  she  cried  to  the  sleeper. 

Norah  rose  in  bed,  her  mind  groping  darkly  with  her 


218  The  Rat-Pit 

surroundings.  She  had  been  dreaming  of  home  and 
wakened  with  a  vivid  remembrance  of  her  mother's 
cabin  still  in  her  mind.  The  light  of  the  sun  shone  full 
in  her  face  and  she  lifted  her  hand  up  to  shield  her  eyes. 
Then  in  a  flash  it  was  borne  to  her  where  she  had  spent 
the  night.  Several  dark  objects  stood  between  her  and 
the  door;  these  developed  into  a  grouping  of  persons, 
in  the  midst  of  which  Alec  Morrison  stood  out  definitely. 
Norah,  fully  dressed,  just  as  she  had  gone  to  sleep, 
moved  towards  him. 

"Alec  Morrison,  I've  come  back,"  she  said,  paused  and 
looked  at  the  girl  beside  him,  then  began  to  talk  hur- 
riedly. "I  left  the  squad  the  day  before  yesterday;  I 
travelled  all  the  dark  night  and  lost  me  way,  for  me  mind 
would  be  busy  with  the  thoughts  that  were  coming  to  me. 
.  .  .  Last  night  I  came  to  yer  door.  .  .  .  Alec  Morri- 
son, why  are  ye  so  scared  lookin'  ?  Sure  ye're  not  afraid 
of  me!" 

Morrison  was  in  a  very  awkward  fix,  and  this  he  con- 
fessed to  himself.  He  never  intended  to  marry  the  girl 
and  never  for  a  moment  thought  that  the  adventure  of 
Christmas  Eve  would  lead  him  into  such  a  predicament. 
"And  you  are  as  well  rid  of  her,"  some  evil  voice  whis- 
pered in  his  ear.  "Look  at  her  as  she  is  now.  Is  she  a 
suitable  companion  for  you?"  Morrison  gazed  covertly 
at  the  girl.  Her  hair,  which  had  not  been  combed  for 
two  days,  hung  over  her  eyes  and  ears  in  tangled  tufts ; 
even  the  face,  which  still  retained  all  its  splendid  beauty, 
was  blackened  by  the  dust  which  had  fallen  from  the 
roof  during  the  night. 

"Are  ye  goin'  to  do  the  right  thing  to  the  girl  ?"  asked 
Donal.  "It's  the  only  way  out  of  it  if  ye  have  the  spirit 
of  a  man  in  ye." 

Morrison  gazed  blankly  at  the  man,  then  at  Norah.    A 


Complications  219 

fierce  and  almost  animal  look  came  into  her  eyes  as  she 
faced  him. 

"I'll  do  the  right  thing,"  he  said  in  a  hoarse  voice  and 
turned  and  went  out  of  the  building,  Ellen  Keenans  fol- 
lowing at  his  heels.  Norah  watched  them  go,  making  no 
effort  to  detain  them.  When  they  went  out  she  tottered 
towards  the  wall,  reaching  upwards  with  her  hands  as 
if  wanting  to  touch  resignation. 

"It's  all  over!"  she  exclaimed.  "It's  him  that  has  the 
black  heart  and  will  be  goin'  to  do  the  right  thing  with 
little  bits  of  money.  The  right  thing !"  She  leant  against 
the  cockroach-covered  wall,  her  little  voice  raised  in  loud 
protest  against  the  monstrous  futility  of  existence. 


in 

AN  hour  later  Morrison  returned  to  the  sty,  carrying 
gold  in  his  pocket  but  feeling  very  awkward.  He 
and  Ellen  had  quarrelled.  When  they  went  out  into  the 
open  from  the  sty  she  turned  on  him  fiercely. 

"How  many  of  these  souls  might  be  saved  if  some  re- 
straining hand  was  reached  out  to  help  them!"  she  quoted 
sneeringly. 

"But,  Ellen,  it  was  more  the  girl's  fault  than  mine. 
And  when  one  is  young  one  may  do  many  things  that 
he's  sorry  for  afterwards.  And  I'll  do  the  right  thing 
for  the  girl." 

"The  right  thing?"  queried  Ellen  Keenans,  and  a  trou- 
bled expression  settled  on  her  face.  "But  you  cannot. 
It's  impossible.  To  two " 

"I'm  wealthy  now,  you  know.    My  allowance " 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  the  girl  and,  strangely  enough,  a 
suggestion  of  relief  blended  with  her  voice. 

"I  suppose  you'll  think  me  a  prig,  Ellen,"  said  the 


220  The  Rat-Pit 

young  man.  "But  it  wasn't  altogether  my  fault,  neither 
was  it  the  girl's,  I  suppose.  I  suppose  it  was  fate.  .  .  . 
The  girl  won't  be  highly  sensitive.  I've  seen  ones  work- 
ing here  on  the  farm,  young  women,  and  they  made  a 
slip.  But  it  did  not  seem  to  affect  them.  And  we  all 
make  mistakes,  Ellen  ..." 

His  speech  came  to  an  end  and  he  left  her  and  went 
towards  the  house ;  an  hour  later  he  re-entered  the  sty. 

The  woman  with  the  pock-marked  face  looked  at  him 
angrily.  Norah  sat  beside  her  on  the  upturned  box,  one 
arm  hanging  loosely  by  her  side,  the  other  resting  on  her 
knees,  the  hand  pressed  against  her  chin  and  a  tapering 
finger  stretching  along  her  cheek.  The  old  woman  had 
given  Norah  a  broken  comb  to  dress  her  hair  and  now  it 
hung  to  her  waist  in  long,  wavy  tresses.  But  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  work  she  had  dropped  the  comb  and  fallen 
into  a  deep  reverie. 

"I've  come  to  see  you,"  Morrison  began  with  an  abrupt- 
ness which  showed  that  he  wanted  to  hurry  over  a  dis- 
tasteful job.  He  was  going  to  make  atonement  for  his 
sin,  and  atonement  represented  a  few  pieces  of  gold,  a 
few  months'  denial  of  the  luxuries  which  this  gold  could 
procure.  He  looked  straight  at  Norah's  bowed  head, 
taking  no  notice  of  the  other  occupants  of  the  hovel. 

"I've  come  to  see  you,"  he  repeated,  but  the  girl  paid 
no  heed  to  him.  He  drew  an  envelope  from  his  pocket, 
shook  it  so  that  the  money  within  made  a  loud  rattle,  and 
placed  it  on  her  lap.  The  girl  roused  herself  abruptly 
as  if  stung,  lifted  the  envelope  and  looked  at  the  man. 
Fearing  that  she  was  going  to  fling  the  terrible  packet  in 
his  face,  he  put  up  his  hand  to  shield  himself.  Norah 
smiled  coldly  and  then  handed  him  back  the  packet,  which 
he  had  not  the  courage  to  refuse  nor  the  audacity  to  re- 
turn. The  girl  seemed  to  be  performing  some  task  that 
had  no  interest  for  her,  something  out  and  beyond  the 


Complications  221 

scope  of  her  life.  For  a  moment  Morrison  felt  it  in 
him  to  pity  her,  but  deep  down  in  his  heart  he  pitied 
himself  more. 

"I  thought  ...  I  would  like  .  .  .  You  know  that 
..."  he  stammered.  "I'll  go  away  just  now,"  he  said 
in  a  low  voice. 

"You'd  better,"  said  Donal,  crouching  by  the  fire  like 
a  cat  ready  to  spring. 

Alec  Morrison  left  the  sty.  At  the  hour  of  noon  Norah 
bade  good-bye  to  Donal  and  Jean  and  set  off  for  Glas- 
gow, where  she  intended  to  call  on  Sheila  Carrol,  the 
beansho. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

THE   RAT-PIT 


THE  address  on  the  letter  which  Norah  received 
from  Sheila  Carrol  was  "47,  Ann  Street,  Cow- 
caddens,"  but  shortly  after  the  letter  had  been 
written  the  Glasgow  Corporation  decided  that  47  was 
unfit  for  human  habitation,  and  those  who  lived  there 
were  turned  out  to  the  streets. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  she  left 
Jean  and  Donal  that  Norah  came  to  No.  47,  to  find  the 
place  in  total  darkness.  She  groped  her  way  up  a  narrow 
alley  to  the  foot  of  a  stair  and  there  "suddenly  stepped 
on  a  warm  human  body  lying  on  the  ground. 

"What  the  devil ! — Ah,  ye're  choking  me,  an  old  person 
that  never  done  no  one  no  harm,"  croaked  a  wheezy  voice, 
apparently  a  woman's,  under  Norah 's  feet.  "I  only  came 
in  oot  of  the  cauld,  lookin'  for  a  night's  shelter.  Hadn't 
a  bawbee  for  the  Rat-pit.  Beg  pardon !  I'm  sorry ;  I'll 
go  away  at  once;  I'll  go  now.  For  the  love  of  heaven 
don't  gie  me  up  to  the  cops.  I'm  only  a  old  body  and  I 
hadn't  a  bawbee  of  my  own.  I  couldn't  keep  walkin'  on 
all  night.  Beg  pardon,  I'm  only  a  old  body  and  I  hadn't 
a  kirk  siller  piece*  for  the  Rat-Pit!" 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I  didn't  know  that  there  was  anyone 
here,"  said  Norah,  peering  through  the  darkness.  "I'm 
a  stranger,  good  woman." 

*  Threepenny  piece. 
222 


The  Rat-Pit  223 

"Ye're  goin'  to  doss  here  too,"  croaked  the  voice  from 
the  ground. 

"I'm  lookin'  for  a  friend,"  said  Norah.  "Maybe  ye'll 
know  her — Sheila  Carrol.  She  lives  here." 

"Nobody  lives  here,"  said  the  woman,  shuffling  to  her 
feet.  "Nobody  but  the  likes  of  me  and  ones  like  me.  No 
human  being  is  supposed  to  live  here.  I  had  at  one  time 
a  room  on  the  top  of  the  landin',  the  cheapest  room  in 
Glasgow  it  was.  Can't  get  another  one  like  it  now  and 
must  sleep  out  in  the  snow.  Out  under  the  scabby  sky 
and  the  wind  and  the  rain.  It  wasn't  healthy  for  people 
to  sleep  here,  so  someone  said,  and  we  were  put  out. 
Think  of  that,  and  me  havin'  the  cheapest  room  in  the 
Cowcaddens.  If  the  cops  find  me  here,  it's  quod.  Wha 
be  ye  lookin'  for?" 

"A  friend,  Sheila  Carrol." 

"Never  heard  of  her."  The  voice,  almost  toneless, 
seemed  to  be  forcing  its  way  through  some  thick  fluid 
in  the  speaker's  throat.  The  darkness  of  the  alley  was 
intense  and  the  women  were  hidden  from  one  another. 

"Everybody  that  stayed  here  has  gone,  and  I  don't 
know  where  they  are,"  the  old  woman  continued.  "Don't 
know  at  all.  Ye  dinna  belong  to  Glesga?"  she  croaked. 

"No,  decent  woman." 

"By  yer  tongue  ye'll  be  a  young  girl." 

"I  am." 

"Mind  ye,  I'm  a  cute  one  and  I  ken  everything.  It's 
not  every  one  that  could  tell  what  ye  are  by  yer  tongue. 
Are  ye  a  stranger?" 

"I  am,"  answered  Norah.  "I  was  never  in  Glasgow 
before." 

"I  knew  that  too,"  said  the  old  woman.  "And  ye  want 
lodgin's  for  the  night?  Then  the  Rat-pit's  the  place;  a 
good  decent  place  it  is — threepence  a  night  for  a  bunk. 
Beg  pardon,  but  maybe  ye'll  have  a  kid's  eye  (three- 


224  The  Rat-Pit 

pence)  extra  to  spare  for  an  old  body.  Come  along  with 
me  and  I'll  show  the  way.  I'm  a  cute  one  and  I  know 
everything.  Ye  couldn't  ha'e  got  into  better  hands  than 
mine  if  ye're  a  stranger  in  Glasgow." 

They  went  out  into  a  dimly-lighted  lane  and  Norah 
took  stock  of  her  new  friend.  The  woman  was  almost 
bent  double  with  age;  a  few  rags  covered  her  body,  she 
wore  no  shoes,  and  a  dusty,  grimy  clout  was  tied  round 
one  of  her  feet.  As  if  conscious  of  Norah's  scrutiny  she 
turned  to  the  girl. 

"Ah!  Ye  wouldn't  think,  would  ye,  that  I  had  once 
the  finest  room  in  the  Cowcaddens,  the  finest — at  its 
price  ?" 

"The  Rat-pit's  a  lodgin'  place  for  women,"  the  old 
creature  croaked  after  an  interval.  "There  are  good  beds 
there ;  threepence  a  night  ye  pay  for  them.  Beg  pardon, 
but  maybe  ye'll  pay  for  my  bunk  for  the  night.  That's 
just  how  I  live;  it's  only  one  night  after  another  in  my 
life.  Beg  pardon,  but  that's  how  it  is."  She  seemed  to 
be  apologising  for  the  crime  of  existing.  "But  ye'll 
maybe  have  a  kid's  eye  to  spare  for  my  bunk  ?"  she  asked. 

"All  right,  decent  woman,"  said  Norah. 

"What  do  they  cry  ye  ?" 

"Norah  Ryan." 

"A  pretty  name;  and  my  name's  Maudie  Stiddart," 
said  the  old  woman. 

ii 

TEN  minutes  later  the  two  women  were  seated  in  the 
kitchen  of  the  Rat-pit,  frying  a  chop  which  Norah 
had  bought  on  their  way  to  the  lodging-house. 

The  place  was  crowded  with  women  of  all  ages,  some 
young,  children  almost,  their  hair  hanging  down  their 
backs,  and  the  blouses  that  their  pinched  breasts  could  not 


The  Rat-Pit  225 

fill  sagging  loose  at  the  bosom.  There  were  six  or  seven 
of  these  girls,  queer  weedy  things  that  smoked  cigarettes 
and  used  foul  words  whenever  they  spoke.  The  face  of 
one  was  pitted  with  small-pox;  another  had  both  eyes 
blackened,  the  result  of  a  fight ;  a  third,  clean  of  face  and 
limb,  was  telling  how  she  had  just  served  two  months  in 
prison  for  importuning  men  on  the  streets.  Several  of 
the  elder  females  were  drunk ;  two  fought  in  the  kitchen, 
pulling  handfuls  of  hair  from  one  another's  heads.  No- 
body interfered;  when  the  struggle  came  to  an  end  the 
combatants  sat  down  together  and  warmed  their  hands 
at  the  stove.  At  this  juncture  a  bare- footed  woman,  with 
clay  caked  brown  behind  her  ankles  and  a  hairy  wart  on 
her  chin,  came  up  to  Norah. 

"Ye're  a  stranger  here,"  she  said. 

"I  am,  decent  woman." 

"Ye're  Irish,  too,  for  I  ken  by  yer  talk,"  said  the  fe- 
male. "And  ye've  got  into  trouble." 

She  pointed  at  the  girl  with  a  long,  crooked  finger, 
and  Norah  blushed. 

"Dinna  be  ashamed  of  it,"  said  the  woman ;  then  turn- 
ing to  Maudie  Stiddart  she  enquired:  "And  ye're  here 
too,  are  ye?  I  thought  ye  were  dead  long  ago?  Jesus! 
but  some  people  can  stick  it  out.  There's  no  killin'  of 
'em !" 

"Oh,  ye're  a  blether,  Mary  Martin,"  said  Maudie, 
turning  the  chop  over  on  the  stove.  "Where  are  ye 
workin'  now?" 

"On  the  free  coup  outside  Glesga." 

"The  free  coup?"  asked  the  young  girl  who  had  just 
left  prison,  lighting  a  cigarette.  "What's  that  atall?" 

"The  place  to  where  the  dung  and  dust  and  dirt  of  a 
town  is  carried  away  and  throwed  down,"  Mary  Martin 
explained.  "Sometimes  lumps  of  coal  and  pieces  of  metal 


226  The  Rat-Pit 

are  flung  down  there.  These  I  pick  up  and  sell  to  people 
and  that's  how  I  make  my  livin'." 

"Is  that  how  you  do?"  asked  the  girl  with  a  shrug  of 
her  shoulders. 

"Everyone  isn't  young  like  you,"  said  Mary,  sitting 
down  on  a  bench  near  the  stove.  The  girl  laughed  va- 
cantly, tried  to  make  a  ring  of  the  cigarette  smoke,  was 
unable  to  do  so,  and  walked  away.  Mary  Martin  turned 
to  Maudie  and  whispered  something  to  her. 

"Ah,  puir  lass !"  exclaimed  Maudie. 

"And  the  one  to  blame  was  a  toff,  too!"  said  Mary. 
"They're  all  alike,  and  the  good  dress  often  hides  a  dirty 
hide." 

"Beg  pardon,  but  have  ye  got  anything  to  ate  ?"  asked 
Maudie. 

"Nothin'  the  night,"  answered  Mary.  "Only  made 
the  price  of  my  bed  for  my  whole  day's  work." 

"Will  ye  ate  something  with  us?"  asked  Norah. 

"Thank  ye,"  said  Mary  Martin,  and  the  three  women 
drew  closer  to  the  chop  that  was  roasting  on  the  stove. 


in 

THE  beds  in  the  Rat-pit,  forty  in  all,  were  in  a  large 
chamber  upstairs,  and  each  woman  had  a  bed  to 
herself.  The  lodgers  undressed  openly,  shoved  their 
clothes  under  the  mattresses  and  slid  into  bed.  One  sat 
down  to  unlace  her  boots  and  fell  asleep  where  she  sat; 
another,  a  young  girl  of  seventeen  or  eighteen,  fell  against 
the  leg  of  the  bed  and  sank  into  slumber,  her  face  turned 
to  the  roof  and  her  mouth  wide  open.  The  girl  who  had 
been  in  prison  became  suddenly  unwell  and  burst  into 
tears;  nobody  knew  what  she  was  weeping  about  and 
nobody  enquired. 


The  Rat-Pit  227 

Maudie,  Mary,  and  Norah  slept  in  three  adjoining 
beds,  the  Irish  girl  in  the  centre.  The  two  older  women 
dropped  off  to  sleep  the  moment  their  heads  touched  the 
pillows ;  Norah  lay  awake  gazing  at  the  flickering 
shadows  cast  by  the  solitary  gas-jet  on  the  roof  of  the 
room.  The  heat  was  oppressive,  suffocating  almost,  and 
not  a  window  in  the  place  was  open.  Women  were  still 
coming  in,  and  only  half  the  bunks  in  the  room  were  yet 
occupied.  Most  of  the  new-comers  were  drunk ;  some  sat 
down  or  fell  on  the  floor  and  slept  where  they  had  fallen, 
others  threw  themselves  in  on  top  of  the  bed  and  lay 
there  with  their  clothes  on.  An  old  woman  whose  eye 
had  been  blackened  in  a  fight  downstairs  started  to  sing 
"Annie  Laurie,"  but  forgetting  what  followed  the  first 
verse,  relapsed  into  silence. 

Norah  began  to  pray  under  her  breath  to  the  Virgin, 
but  had  only  got  half  through  with  her  prayer  when  a 
shriek  from  the  bed  on  her  left  startled  her.  Maudie 
was  sitting  upright,  yelling  at  the  top  of  her  voice.  "Can- 
not ye  let  an  old  body  be?"  she  cried.  "I'm  only  wantin' 
a  night's  doss  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  That's  not  much 
for  an  old  un  to  ask,  is  it  ?  Holy  Jesus !  I  cannot  be  let 
alone  for  a  minute.  Beg  pardon ;  I'm  goin'  away,  but 
ye  might  let  me  stay  here,  and  me  only  an  old  woman !" 

Maudie  opened  her  watery  eyes  and  stared  round. 
Beads  of  sweat  stood  out  on  her  forehead,  and  her  face 
— red  as  a  crab — looked  terrifying  in  the  half-light  of  the 
room. 

"Beg  pardon,"  she  croaked,  and  her  voice  had  a  sound 
like  the  breaking  of  bones.  "Beg  pardon.  I'm  only  an 
old  woman  and  I  never  did  nobody  no  harm !" 

She  sank  down  again,  pulled  the  blankets  over  her 
shoulders  and  fell  asleep. 

Fresh  arrivals  came  in  every  minute,  staggered  wearily 
to  their  bunks  and  threw  themselves  down  without  un- 


228  The  Rat-Pit 

dressing.  About  midnight  a  female  attendant,  a  young, 
neat  girl  with  a  pleasing  face,  entered,  surveyed  the  room, 
helped  those  who  lay  on  the  floor  into  bed,  turned  down 
the  gas  and  went  away. 

Slumber  would  not  come  to  Norah.  All  night  she  lay 
awake,  listening  to  the  noise  of  the  dust-carts  on  the 
pavement  outside,  the  chiming  of  church  clocks,  the  deep 
breathing  of  the  sleepers  all  around  her,  and  the  sudden 
yells  from  Maudie's  bunk  as  the  woman  started  in  her 
sleep  protesting  against  some  grievance  or  voicing  some 
ancient  wrong. 

The  daylight  was  stealing  through  the  grimy  window 
when  Norah  got  up  and  proceeded  to  dress.  A  deep 
quietness,  broken  only  by  the  heavy  breathing  of  the 
women,  lay  over  the  whole  place.  The  feeble  light  of 
daybreak  shone  on  the  ashen  faces  of  the  sleepers,  on 
the  naked  body  of  a  well-made  girl  who  had  flung  off  all 
her  clothing  in  a  troubled  slumber,  on  Mary  Martin's 
clay-caked  legs  that  stuck  out  from  beneath  the  blankets, 
on  Maudie  Stiddart's  wrinkled,  narrow  brow  beaded 
with  sweat ;  on  the  faces  of  all  the  sleepers,  the  wiry  and 
weakly,  the  fit  and  feeble,  the  light  of  new-born  day 
rested.  Suddenly  old  Mary  turned  in  her  sleep,  then  sat 
up. 

"Where  are  ye  goin'  now?"  she  called  to  Norah. 

"To  look  for  a  friend,"  came  the  answer. 

"A  man?" 

"A  woman  called  Sheila  Carrol  is  the  one  I'm  lookin' 
for,"  said  Norah.  "I  went  to  47,  Ann  Street  last  night, 
for  I  had  a  letter  from  her  there.  But  the  place  was 
closed  up." 

"Sheila  Carrol,  they  cry  her,  ye  say?"  said  the  old 
woman,  getting  out  of  bed.  "Maybe  it's  her  that  I  ken. 
She  came  from  Ireland  with  a  little  boy  and  she  used  to 


The  Rat-Pit  229 

work  with  me  at  one  time.  A  comely  strong-boned  wench 
she  was.  Came  from  Frosses,  she  once  told  me." 

"That's  Sheila!" 

"And  she's  left  47?" 

"So  I  hear." 

"Then  take  my  advice  and  try  No.  46  and  No.  48," 
said  Mary  Martin;  "and  also  every  close  in  the  street. 
The  people  that  lived  in  47  will  not  gang  far  awa'  from 
it.  They'll  be  in  the  next  close  or  thereabouts.  What 
do  they  cry  you,  lass?"  asked  the  old  woman,  slipping 
into  her  rags. 

"Norah  Ryan." 

"A  pretty  name  it  is,  indeed.  And  have  ye  threepence 
to  spare  for  my  breakfast,  Norah  Ryan?  I  haven't  a 
penny  piece  in  all  the  wide  world." 

Norah  gave  threepence  of  her  hard-earned  money  to 
Mary,  sorted  her  dress  and  stole  out  into  the  streets  to 
search  for  Sheila  Carrol. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

SHEILA    CARROL 


NORAH  travelled  through  the  streets  all  day,  look- 
ing for  her  friend  and  fearing  that  every  eye 
was  fixed  on  her,  that  everybody  knew  the  se- 
cret which  she  tried  to  conceal.  Her  feet  were  sore,  her 
breath  came  in  short,  sudden  gasps  as  she  took  her  way 
into  dark  closes  and  climbed  creaking  stairs;  and  never 
were  her  efforts  rewarded  by  success.  Here  in  the  poorer 
parts  of  the  city,  in  the  crooked  lanes  and  straggling 
alleys,  were  dirt,  darkness,  and  drunkenness.  A  thou- 
sand smells  greeted  the  nostrils,  a  thousand  noises  grated 
on  the  ears ;  lights  flared  brightly  in  the  beershops ;  fights 
started  at  the  corners;  ballad  singers  croaked  out  their 
songs ;  intoxicated  men  fell  in  the  gutters ;  policemen 
stood  at  every  turning,  their  helmets  glistening,  their 
faces  calm,  their  eyes  watchful.  The  evening  had  come 
and  all  was  noise,  hurry,  and  excitement. 

"Isaac  Levison,  Pawnbroker ;  2  Up,"  Norah  read  on  a 
plate  outside  the  entrance  of  a  close  and  went  in. 

"I  wonder  if  Sheila  will  be  here?"  she  asked  herself, 
and  smiled  sadly  as  she  called  to  mind  the  number  of 
closes  she  had  crawled  into  during  the  whole  long  trying 
day. 

Dragging  her  feet  after  her,  she  made  her  way  up  the 
crooked  stairs  and  rapped  with  her  knuckles  at  a  door  on 

230 


Sheila  Carrol  231 

which  the  words  "Caretaker's  office"  were  painted  in 
black  letters.  A  woman,  with  a  string  for  a  neck  and 
wisps  of  red  hair  hanging  over  her  face,  poked  out  her 
head. 

"Up  yet,"  was  the  answer  when  Norah  asked  if  any- 
body named  Sheila  Carrol  dwelt  on  the  stairs. 

"After  all  my  searchin'  she's  here  at  last,"  said  the 
young  woman.  "It's  Sheila  Carrol  herself  that's  in  the 
place." 

The  beansho  opened  the  door  when  she  heard  a  rap- 
ping outside.  She  knew  her  visitor  at  once. 

"Come  in,  Norah  Ryan,"  she  said,  catching  the  girl's 
hands  and  squeezing  them  tightly.  "It's  good  of  ye  to 
come.  No  one  from  Presses,  only  Oiney  Dinchy's  gasair, 
have  I  seen  here  for  a  long  while.  But  ye'll  be  tired, 
child?" 

"It's  in  an  ill  way  that  I  come  to  see  ye,  Sheila  Carrol," 
said  Norah.  "It's  an  ill  way,  indeed  it  is,"  and  then,  sit- 
ting down,  she  told  her  story  quietly  as  if  that  which  she 
spoke  of  did  not  interest  her  in  any  way. 

"Poor  child!"  said  Sheila,  when  the  pitiful  tale  came 
to  an  end.  "Why  has  God  put  that  burden  on  yer  little 
shoulders?  But  there's  no  use  in  pining,  Norah.  Mind 
that,  child !" 

"I  would  like  to  die,  Sheila  Carrol,"  said  Norah,  look- 
ing round  the  bare  room,  but  not  feeling  in  the  least  in- 
terested in  what  she  saw.  One  chair,  a  bed,  a  holy  water 
stoup,  a  little  black  crucifix  from  which  the  arms  of  the 
Christ  had  fallen  away,  an  orange  box  on  which  lay  a 
pair  of  scissors  and  a  pile  of  cloth :  that  was  all  the  room 
contained.  A  feeble  fire  burned  in  the  grate  and  a  bat- 
tered oil-lamp  threw  a  dim  light  over  the  compartment. 

"I  once  had  thoughts  that  were  like  that,  meself,"  said 
Sheila.  She  placed  a  little  tin  pannikin  on  the  fire  and 
fanned  the  flame  with  her  apron.  "People  face  a  terrible 


232  The  Rat-Pit 

lot  in  body  and  in  soul  before  they  face  death.  That's 
the  way  God  made  us,  child.  We  do  be  like  grains  of 
corn  under  a  mill-stone,  and  everything  but  the  breath  of 
our  bodies  squeezed  out  of  us.  Sometimes  I  do  be 
thinkin'  that  the  word  'hope'  is  blotted  from  me  soul ;  but 
then  after  a  wee  while  I  do  be  happy  in  my  own  way 
again." 

"But  did  ye  not  find  yer  own  burden  hard  to  bear, 
Sheila?" 

"Hard  indeed,  child,  but  it's  trouble  that  makes  us 
wise,"  said  the  beansho,  pouring  tea  into  the  pannikin  that 
was  now  bubbling  merrily.  "The  father  of  me  boy  died 
on  the  sea  and  me  goin'  to  be  married  to  him  when  the 
season  of  Lent  was  by.  The  cold  grey  morning  when 
the  boat  came  in  keel  up  on  Dooey  Strand  was  a  hard  and 
black  one  for  me.  Ah!  the  cold  break  of  day;  sorrow 
take  it!  The  child  came  and  I  was  not  sorry  at  all,  as 
the  people  thought  I  should  be.  He  was  like  the  man  I 
loved,  and  if  the  bitin'  tongues  of  the  Presses  people  was 
quiet  I  would  be  very  happy,  I  would  indeed,  Norah! 
But  over  here  in  this  country  it  was  sore  and  bitter  to 
me.  I  mind  the  first  night  that  I  stopped  in  Glasgow 
with  the  little  boy.  He  was  between  my  arms  and  I  was 
lookin'  out  through  the  window  of  47  at  the  big  clock 
with  the  light  inside  of  it.  It  was  a  lazy  clock  that  night 
and  I  thought  that  the  light  of  day  would  never  put  a 
colour  on  the  sky.  But  the  mornin'  did  come  and  many 
mornin's  since  then,  and  stone-cold  they  were  too !" 

Then  Sheila  told  the  story  of  her  life  in  Scotland,  and 
Norah,  hardly  realising  what  was  spoken,  listened  almost 
dumbly,  feeling  at  intervals  the  child  within  her  moving 
restlessly,  stretching  out  as  if  with  a  hand  and  pressing 
against  her  side,  causing  a  quivering  motion  to  run 
through  her  body. 

Sheila's  story  was  a  pitiful  one.    When  first  she  came 


Sheila  Carrol  233 

to  Glasgow  she  took  an  attic  room  at  the  top  of  a  four- 
storeyed  building  and  for  this  she  paid  a  weekly  rent  of 
three  shillings  and  sixpence. 

"  Twas  the  dirty  place  to  live  in,  Norah,  for  all  the 
smells  and  stinks  of  the  houses  down  under  came  up  to 
me,"  said  the  woman.  "And  three  white  shillin's  and  six- 
pence a  week  for  that  place  that  one  wouldn't  put  pigs 
into !  The  houses  away  at  home  may  be  bad,  but  there's 
always  the  fresh  air  and  no  drunk  men  or  bad  women 
lyin'  across  yer  door  every  time  ye  go  outside.  47  was 
a  rotten  place;  worse  even  than  this,  and  this  is  bad. 
Look  at  the  sheets  and  blankets  on  the  bed  behind  ye, 
Norah,  look  at  the  colour  of  them  and  the  writin'  on 
them." 

Norah  gazed  at  the  bed  and  saw  on  every  article  of 
clothing,  stamped  in  large  blue  letters,  the  words: 
"STOLEN  FROM  JAMES  MOFFAT." 

"That's  because  someone  may  steal  the  rags,"  said 
Sheila.  "This  room  is  furnished  by  the  landlord,  God 
forgive  him  for  the  furnishin'  of  it!  And  he's  afraid 
that  his  tenants  will  run  away  and  try  to  pawn  the  bed- 
clothes. Lyin'  under  the  blankets  all  night  with 
STOLEN  FROM  JAMES  MOFFAT  writ  on  them  is  a 
quare  way  of  sleepin'.  But  what  can  a  woman  like  me 
do  ?  And  47  was  worse  nor  this ;  and  the  work !  'Twas 
beyond  speakin'  about! 

"The  first  job  I  got  was  the  finishin'  of  dongaree 
jackets,  sewin'  buttons  on  them,  and  things  like  that!  I 
was  up  in  the  mornin'  at  six  and  went  to  bed  the  next 
mornin'  at  one,  and  hard  at  it  all  the  time  I  wasn't 
sleepin'.  Sunday  was  the  same  as  any  other  day ;  always 
work,  always  the  needle.  I  used  to  make  seven  shillin's 
a  week;  half  of  that  went  in  rent  and  the  other  half 
kept  meself  and  my  boy.  Talk  about  teeth  growin'  long 


234  The  Rat-Pit 

with  hunger  at  times  when  the  work  was  none  too  plen- 
tiful !  Sometimes,  Norah " 

Sheila  paused.  Norah  was  listening  intently,  her  lips 
a  little  apart,  like  a  child's. 

"Sometimes,  Norah,  I  went  out  beggin'  on  the  streets 
— me,  a  Frosses  woman  too,"  Sheila  resumed  with  a  sigh. 
"Then  one  night  when  I  asked  a  gentleman  for  a  few 
pence  to  buy  bread  he  handed  me  over  to  the  police.  Said 
I  was  accostin'  him.  I  didn't  even  know  what  it  meant  at 
the  time;  now —  But  I  hope  ye  never  know  what  it 
means.  .  .  .  Anyway  I  was  sent  to  jail  for  three  weeks." 

"To  jail,  Sheila !"  Norah  exclaimed. 

"True  as  God,  child,  and  my  boy  left  alone  in  that  dirty 
attic.  There  was  I  not  knowin'  what  was  happenin'  to 
him,  and  when  I  came  out  of  prison  I  heard  that  the  po- 
lice had  caught  him  wanderin'  out  in  the  streets  and  put 
him  in  a  home.  But  I  didn't  see  him;  I  was  slapped 
into  jail  again." 

"What  for,  Sheila?" 

"Child  neglect,  girsha,"  said  the  woman,  lifting  her 
scissors  and  cutting  fiercely  at  a  strip  of  cloth  as  she 
spoke.  "I  don't  know  how  they  made  it  out  again'  me, 
but  the  law  is  far  beyond  simple  people  like  us.  I  was  put 
in  for  three  months  that  time  and  when  I  came  out " 

A  tear  dropped  from  Sheila's  eyes  and  fell  on  the  cloth 
which  lay  on  her  lap. 

"The  little  fellow,  God  rest  his  soul!  was  dead,"  said 
the  woman.  "Then  I  hadn't  much  to  live  for  and  I  was 
like  to  die.  But  people  can  stand  a  lot  one  way  and 
another,  a  terrible  lot  entirely.  After  that  I  thought  of 
making  shirts  and  I  got  a  sewin'  machine  from  a  big  firm 
on  the  instalment  system.  A  shillin'  a  week  I  had  to  pay 
for  the  machine.  I  could  have  done  well  at  the  shirt- 
makin',  but  things  seemed  somehow  to  be  again'  me.  On 
the  sixth  week  I  couldn't  pay  the  shillin'.  It  was  due 


Sheila  Carrol  235 

on  a  Friday  and  Saturday  was  my  own  pay  day.  I  prayed 
to  the  traveller  to  wait  for  the  morrow,  but  he  wouldn't, 

and  took  the  machine  away.  'Twas  the  big  firm  of 

too,  that  did  that.  Think  of  it!  them  with  their  mills 
and  their  riches  and  me  only  a  poor  woman.  Nor  it 
wasn't  as  if  I  wasn't  wantin'  to  pay  neither.  But  that's 
the  way  of  the  world,  girsha ;  the  bad,  black  world,  cold 
as  the  rocks  on  Dooey  Strand  it  is,  aye,  and  colder. 

"Sometimes  after  the  sewin'  machine  went  I  used  to  go 
out  on  the  streets  and  sing  songs,  and  at  that  sort  of  work, 
not  at  all  becomin'  for  a  Frosses  woman,  I  could  always 
make  the  price  of  a  bunk  in  the  Rat-pit,  the  place  where 
ye  were  last  night,  Norah.  Ah !  how  often  have  I  had 
my  night's  sleep  there !  Then  again  I  would  come  back 
to  47  and  start  some  decent  work  that  wasn't  half  as  easy 
or  half  as  well  paid  as  the  singin'  of  songs.  So  I  went 
from  one  thing  to  another  and  here  I  am  at  this  very 
minute." 

Sheila  paused  in  her  talk  but  not  in  the  work  which 
she  had  just  started. 

"Not  much  of  a  room,  this  one,  neither,"  she  remarked, 
casting  her  eye  on  the  bed,  but  not  missing  a  stitch  in  her 
sewing  as  she  spoke.  "Four  shillin's  I  pay  for  it  a  week 
and  it's  supposed  to  hold  two  people.  Outside  the  door 
you  can  see  that  ticketed  up,  'To  hold  two  adults/  like 
the  price  marked  on  a  pair  of  secondhand  trousers.  I'm 
all  alone  here ;  only  the  woman,  old  Meg,  that  stops  in 
the  room  behind  this  one,  passes  through  here  on  her  way 
to  work.  But  ye'll  stay  here  with  me  now,  two  Frosses 
people  in  the  one  room,  so  to  speak." 

"What  kind  of  work  are  ye  doin'  here  ?"  asked  Norah, 
pointing  to  the  cloth  which  Sheila  was  sewing. 

"Shirt-finishin',"  Sheila  replied.  "For  every  shirt 
there's  two  rows  of  feather-stitchin',  eight  buttonholes 
and  seven  buttons  sewed  on,  four  seams  and  eight  fasten- 


236  The  Rat-Pit 

ers.  It  takes  me  over  an  hour  to  do  each  shirt  and  the  pay 
is  a  penny  farthing.  I  can  make  about  fifteen  pence  a  day, 
but  out  of  that  I  have  to  buy  my  own  thread.  But  ye'll 
be  tired,  child,  listenin'  to  me  clatterin'  here  all  night." 

"I'm  not  tired  listenin'  to  ye  at  all,  but  it's  sorrow  that's 
with  me  because  life  was  so  hard  on  ye,"  said  Norah. 
"Everything  was  black  again'  ye." 

"One  gets  used  to  it  all,"  said  Sheila  with  the  air  of 
resignation  which  sits  on  the  shoulders  of  those  to  whom 
the  keys  of  that  delicious  mystery  known  as  happiness 
are  forever  lost.  "One  gets  used  to  things,  no  matter 
how  hard  they  be,  and  one  doesn't  like  to  die." 

But  now  Norah  listened  almost  heedlessly.  Thoughts 
dropped  into  her  mind  and  vanished  with  the  frightful 
rapidity  of  things  falling  into  .empty  space ;  and  memories 
of  still  more  remote  things,  faint,  far  away  and  almost 
undefined,  were  wafted  against  her  soul. 

The  girl  fell  into  a  heavy  slumber. 


II 

IN  the  morning  she  awoke  to  find  herself  lying  in  bed, 
the  blankets  on  which  the  blue  letters  STOLEN 
FROM  JAMES  MOFFAT  were  stamped  wrapped 
tightly  around  her,  and  Sheila  Carrol  lying  by  her  side. 
For  a  moment  she  wondered  vaguely  how  she  had  got 
into  the  bunk,  then  raising  herself  on  her  elbow,  she 
looked  round  the  room. 

The  apartment  was  a  very  small  one,  with  one  four- 
paned  window  and  two  doors,  one  of  which  led,  as  Norah 
knew,  out  to  the  landing,  and  one,  as  she  guessed,  into  the 
room  belonging  to  old  Meg,  the  woman  whom  Sheila  had 
spoken  of  the  night  before.  The  window  was  cracked  and 
crooked,  the  floor  and  doors  creaked  at  every  move,  a 


Sheila  Carrol  237 

musty  odour  of  decay  and  death  filled  the  whole  place.  A 
heap  of  white  shirts  was  piled  on  the  orange  box  that 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  one  shirt,  the  "finishing" 
of  which  had  not  been  completed,  lay  on  an  old  newspa- 
per beside  the  fireplace.  It  looked  as  if  Sheila  had  become 
suddenly  tired  in  the  midst  of  her  feather-stitching  and 
had  slipped  into  bed.  She  was  now  awake  and  almost 
as  soon  as  she  had  opened  her  eyes  was  out  of  the 
blankets,  had  wrapped  a  few  rags  round  her  bony  frame 
and  was  busy  at  work  with  her  needle.  Sleep  for  the 
woman  was  only  a  slight  interruption  of  her  eternal 
routine. 

"Have  a  wee  wink  more,"  she  cried  to  Norah,  "and 
I'll  just  make  a  good  warm  cup  of  tay  for  ye  when  I  get 
this  row  finished.  Little  rogue  of  all  the  world!  ye're 
tired  out  and  worn !" 

Norah  smiled  sadly,  got  up,  dressed  herself,  and  going 
down  on  her  knees  by  the  bedside,  said  her  prayers. 

"It's  like  Frosses  again,"  said  Sheila,  when  the  girl's 
prayers  came  to  an  end.  "Even  seein'  ye  there  on  yer 
knees  takes  back  old  times.  But  often  I  do  be  thinkin* 
that  prayin'  isn't  much  good.  There  was  old  Doalty  Far- 
rel;  ye  mind  him  talkin'  about  politics  the  night  yer 
father,  God  rest  him!  was  underboard.  Well,  Doalty 
was  a  very  holy  man,  as  ye  know  yerself,  and  he  used  to 
go  down  on  his  knees  when  out  in  the  very  fields  and 
pray  and  pray.  Well  and  good ;  he  went  down  one  day  on 
his  knees  in  the  snow  and  when  he  got  home  he  had  a 
pain  in  one  of  his  legs.  That  night  it  was  in  his  side,  in 
the  mornin'  Doalty  was  dead.  Gasair  Oiney  Dinchy  was 
tellin'  me  all  about  it." 

"But  they  say  in  Frosses  that  God  was  so  pleased 
with  Doalty  that  He  took  him  up  to  heaven  before  his 
time,"  said  Norah. 

"But  it's  not  many  that  like  to  go  to  heaven  before 


238  The  Rat-Pit 

their  time,"  Sheila  remarked  as  she  rose  from  her  seat 
and  set  about  to  kindle  the  fire.  At  the  same  moment  the 
door  leading  in  from  the  compartment  opened,  and  an  old 
woman,  very  ugly,  her  teeth  worn  to  the  gums,  the 
stumps  unhealthily  yellow,  her  eyes  squinting  and  a  hairy 
wart  growing  on  her  right  cheek,  entered  the  room. 

"Good  morra,  Meg,"  said  Sheila,  who  was  fanning  the 
fire  into  flame  with  her  apron.  "Are  ye  goin'  to  yer 
work?" 

"Goin'  to  my  work,"  replied  Meg  and  turned  her  eyes 
to  Norah.  "A  friend,  I  see,"  she  remarked. 

"A  countrywoman  of  my  own,"  said  Sheila. 

"Are  ye  new  to  Glesga  ?"  Meg  asked  Norah,  who  was 
gazing  absently  out  of  the  window. 

"I  have  only  just  come  here,"  said  the  girl. 

"Admirin'  the  view!"  remarked  Meg  with  a  wheezy 
laugh  as  she  took  her  place  beside  the  girl  at  the  window. 
"A  fine  sight  to  look  at,  that.  Dirty  washin'  hung  out 
to  dry ;  dirty  houses ;  everything  dirty.  Look  down  at 
the  yard!" 

A  four-square  block  of  buildings  with  outhouses,  slaty 
grey  and  ugly,  scabbed  on  to  the  walls,  enclosed  a  paved 
courtyard,  at  one  corner  of  which  stood  a  pump,  at  an- 
other a  stable  with  a  heap  of  manure  piled  high  outside 
the  door.  Two  grey  long-bodied  rats  could  be  seen  run- 
ning across  from  the  pump  to  the  stable,  a  ragged  tramp 
who  had  slept  all  night  on  the  warm  dunghill  shuffled 
up  to  his  feet,  rubbed  the  sleep  and  dirt  from  his  eyes, 
then  slunk  away  from  the  place  as  if  conscious  of  having 
done  something  very  wrong. 

"That  man  has  slept  here  for  many  a  night,"  said  Meg ; 
then  pointing  her  finger  upwards  over  the  roofs  of  many 
houses  to  a  spire  that  pierced  high  through  the  smoke- 
laden  air,  she  said:  "That's  the  Municipal  Buildin's; 
that's  where  the  rich  people  meet  and  talk  about  the  best 


Sheila  Carrol  239 

thing  to  be  done  with  houses  like  these.  It's  easy  to  talk 
over  yonder ;  that  house  cost  five  hunner  and  fifty  thou- 
sand pounds  to  build.  A  gey  guid  hoose,  surely,  isn't  it, 
'Sheila  Carrol?" 

"It's  comin'  half-past  five,  Meg,  and  it's  time  ye  were 
settin'  out  for  yer  work,"  was  Sheila's  answer.  "Ye'd 
spend  half  yer  life  bletherin'." 

"A  good,  kindly  and  decent  woman  she  is,"  Sheila  told 
Norah  when  Meg  took  her  departure.  "Works  very  hard 
and,  God  forgive  her!  drinks  very  hard  too.  Nearly 
every  penny  that  doesn't  go  in  rent  does  in  the  crathur, 
and  she's  happy  enough  in  her  own  way  although  a  black 
Prodesan  .  .  .  Ah!  there's  some  quare  people  here  on 
this  stair  when  ye  come  to  know  them  all !" 

Over  a  tin  of  tea  and  a  crust  Sheila  made  plans  for  the 
future.  "I  can  earn  about  one  and  three  a  day  at  the 
finishin',"  she  said.  "I  have  to  buy  my  own  thread  out 
of  that,  three  bobbins  a  week  at  twopence  ha'penny  a 
bobbin. 

"Ye  used  to  be  a  fine  knitter,  Norah,"  Sheila  continued. 
"D'ye  mind  the  night  long  ago  on  Dooey  Strand?  God 
knows  it  was  hardships  enough  for  the  strong  women  like 
us  to  sleep  out  in  the  snow,  not  to  mention  a  young  girsha 
like  yerself.  But  ye  were  the  great  knitter  then  and  ye'll 
be  nirrtble  with  yer  fingers  yet,  I'll  go  bail.  Sewing  ye 
might  be  able  to  take  a  turn  at." 

"I  used  to  be  good  with  needle,  Sheila,"  said  the  girl. 

"Then  that'll  be  what  we'll  do.  We'll  work  together, 
me  and  yerself,  and  we'll  get  on  together  well  and 
cheaper.  It'll  be  only  the  one  fire  and  the  one  light ;  and 
now,  if  ye  don't  mind,  we'll  begin  work  and  I'll  show 
ye  what's  to  be  done." 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

THE  PASSING  DAYS 


THEY  came  and  went,  days  monotonously  slow, 
each  bearing  with  it  its  burden  of  sorrows  and 
regrets,  of  fear  and  unhappiness.  The  life  of 
the  two  women  was  ever  the  same :  out  of  bed  at  five  in 
the  morning,  a  salutation  exchanged  with  old  Meg  as  she 
went  to  her  work ;  breakfast — a  crust  of  bread  and  a  cup 
of  tea;  the  light,  weak  and  sickly,  peeping  through  the 
narrow,  murky  window,  the  eternal  scissors  and  needles, 
the  white  heaps  of  shirts,  the  feather-stitching  and  finish- 
ing. In  the  morning  the  cripple  next  door  clattered  down- 
stairs on  crutches,  the  card  with  the  rude  inscription, 
PARALYSED  FOR  LIFE,  shaking  to  and  fro  as  he 
moved.  All  day  long  he  lay  on  the  cold  flagged  pavement 
begging  his  daily  bread.  Tommy  Macara,  the  lad  with 
the  rickets,  came  out  singing  to  the  landing  on  his  way  to 
the  industrial  school.  He  stuck  his  head  through  the 
door  and  shouted :  "Ye  twa  women,  warkin'  hard." 
Both  loved  little  Tommy,  his  cheery  laugh,  his  childish 
carelessness,  his  poor  body  twisted  out  of  shape  by  the 
humours  of  early  disease.  His  legs  would  twitch  as  he 
stood  at  the  door,  making  an  effort  to  control  the  tremors ; 
sometimes  he  would  laugh  awkwardly  at  this  and  hurry 
away.  Thus  the  morning. 

Noon. — A  quarrel  at  No.  8.     The  two  loose  women 
who  lived  there  argued  about  the  spoils  taken  from  a 

240 


The  Passing  Days  241 

drunken  sailor  the  night  before,  and  came  to  blows.  One 
was  dressed,  the  other,  just  out  of  bed,  had  only  time  to 
wrap  the  blanket  round  her  body.  Both  came  out  on  the 
landing  tearing  at  each  other's  hair  and  swearing.  All  the 
doors  in  the  place  opened ;  women  ragged  to  the  point  of 
nudity,  men  dirty  and  unshaven,  hurried  out  to  watch  the 
fight,  which  was  long  and  severe.  The  women  bit  and 
scratched,  and  the  younger — Bessie  was  her  name — a 
plump  girl  wearing  the  blanket  on  which  the  words 
STOLEN  FROM  JAMES  MOFFAT  could  be  read  at 
a  distance — was  deprived  of  her  only  article  of  apparel, 
and  she  scurried  rapidly  indoors.  The  onlookers  laughed 
loudly  and  clapped  their  hands ;  the  elder,  a  light-limbed 
lassie  with  very  white  teeth,  returned  to  her  room  closing 
the  door  behind  her.  Now  and  again  a  shriek  could  be 
heard  from  the  apartment,  then  a  hoarse  gurgle,  as  if 
somebody  was  getting  strangled,  afterwards  silence.  The 
watchers  retired  indoors,  and  peace  settled  on  the  stair- 
head. Only  the  two  women,  Sheila  and  Norah,  never 
ceased  work;  the  needles  and  scissors  still  sparkled  over 
and  through  the  white  shirts. 

Evening. — Meg  returned  half-tipsy  and  singing  a 
chorus,  half  the  words  of  which  she  had  forgotten.  The 
day's  work  had  been  a  very  trying  one,  the  dust  rising 
from  the  rags  did  not  agree  with  her  asthma.  On  enter- 
ing she  looked  fixedly  at  Sheila,  shook  her  head  sadly,  ran 
her  fingers  over  Norah's  hair  and  began  the  chorus  again, 
but  stopped  in  the  middle  of  it  and  started  to  weep.  After 
a  while  she  reeled  into  her  own  room,  closed  the  door 
behind  her,  and  sank  to  sleep  on  the  floor  beside  the  dead 
fire. 

Little  Tom  Macara  came  up  the  stair,  looked  in,  the 
eternal  smile  on  his  pinched  face,  and  cried  out  in  a  thin 
voice :  "Ah !  the  women  are  warkin'  awa'  yet.  They 
never  have  a  meenit  to  spare !" 


242  The  Rat-Pit 

"Never  a  minute,  Tom,"  Sheila  answered,  and  the  boy 
went  off,  whistling  a  music-hall  tune.  Tom's  mother  was 
consumptive,  his  father  epileptic;  he  had  two  brothers 
and  three  sisters  all  older  than  himself.  After  Tom,  the 
man  with  the  crutches  came  upstairs.  From  the  street 
to  the  top  of  the  landing  was  a  weary  climb,  but  often  he 
got  helped  on  the  journey;  sometimes  the  two  whores 
escorted  him  up,  sometimes  Sheila  gave  him  an  arm,  and 
everybody  on  the  stairs  liked  the  man.  He  was  always 
in  good  humour  and  could  sing  a  capital  song. 

Later  in  the  evening,  those  who  indulged  in  intoxicants 
became  drunk ;  an  ex-soldier,  with  one  sleeve  of  his  coat 
hanging  loosely  from  his  shoulder,  who  lived  with  two 
women,  kicked  one  unmercifully  and  got  dragged  off  to 
prison;  the  two  harlots  netted  two  men,  one  of  them  a 
well-dressed  fellow  with  a  gold  tie-pin  and  a  ring  on  his 
finger,  and  took  them  to  their  room ;  the  paralytic  could 
be  heard  singing  and  his  voice  seemed  to  be  ever  so  far 
away.  Sheila  and  Norah  were  still  busy  with  the  shirts, 
sewing  their  lives  into  every  stitch  of  their  work. 

"And  them  two  women  at  No.  8,  there's  not  the  least 
bit  of  harm  in  them  at  bottom,"  Sheila  would  exclaim. 
"They  help  the  old  cripple  up  every  time  they  meet  him 
on  the  stairs.  And  to  think  of  it!  there's  seventeen 
thousand  women  like  them  in  Glasgow !" 

"God  be  good  to  us !" 

Midnight  came  and  quiet,  and  still  the  two  women 
worked  on.  Outside  on  the  landing  into  the  common  sink 
the  water  kept  dripping  from  the  tap.  Sheila  made  a 
remark  about  the  people  away  home  in  Frosses  and  won- 
dered if  they  were  all  asleep  at  that  moment.  Outside, 
the  city  sank  to  its  repose;  only  the  unfortunate  and  the 
unwell  were  now  awake.  The  epileptic's  wife  coughed 
continually ;  Bessie,  the  plump  girl,  stole  the  pin  from  the 
tie  of  her  lover;  downstairs  the  caretaker,  the  woman 


The  Passing  Days  243 

with  the  red  wisps  of  hair,  counted  the  number  of  men 
who  went  to  No.  8;  half  the  profits  went  to  her. 

One  o'clock  came  and,  as  if  by  mutual  consent,  the 
Irish  women  left  their  work  aside  and  looked  out  of  the 
window  for  a  moment.  High  up  they  could  see  the  spire 
of  the  town  hall  prodding  into  the  heavens ;  nearer  and 
almost  as  high  the  tower  of  a  church  with  the  black 
hands  passing  on  the  lighted  face  of  a  clock;  closer  still 
the  dark  windows  of  the  houses  opposite.  Glasgow  with 
all  its  churches,  its  halls,  with  its  shipping  and  commerce, 
its  wharves  and  factories,  its  richness  and  splendour,  its 
poor  and  unhappy,  its  oppressed  and  miserable,  Glasgow, 
with  its  seventeen  thousand  prostitutes,  was  asleep. 


II 

NORAH  and  Sheila  went  to  bed,  wrapped  the  blue- 
lettered  blankets  round  their  bodies  and  placed  their 
heads  down  on  the  condemnatory  sentences :  STOLEN 
FROM  JAMES  MOFFAT.  Almost  immediately  Sheila 
was  asleep,  her  knees  drawn  up  under  her  (for  the  bed 
was  too  short  for  her  body)  and  her  arms  around  Norah. 
The  young  girl  could  not  sleep  well  now ;  short  feverish 
snatches  of  slumber  were  followed  by  sudden  awaken- 
ings, and  fears  and  fancies,  too  subtle  to  define,  constantly 
preyed  on  her  mind.  Sometimes,  when  under  the  in- 
fluence of  a  religious  melancholy  that  often  took  posses- 
sion of  her,  she  repeated  the  Hail  Mary  over  and  over 
again,  but  at  intervals  she  stopped  in  the  midst  of  a 
prayer,  started  as  if  stung  by  an  asp  and  exclaimed: 
"What  does  the  Virgin  think  of  me,  me  that  has  com- 
mitted one  of  the  worst  mortal  sins  in  the  world !" 

In  the  midst  of  a  prayer  she  dropped  to  sleep,  maybe 
for  the  third  time  in  an  hour,  but  immediately  was  awak- 


244  The  Rat-Pit 

ened  by  a  sharp  rapping  at  the  door.  Sheila  heard  noth- 
ing, she  lay  almost  inert,  and  perspiring  a  little. 

"Who's  there?"  Norah  calkd  out. 

"The  sanitary,"  a  hoarse  voice  answered  from  the 
landing. 

The  girl  slipped  out  of  bed,  hardly  daring  to  breathe 
lest  her  companion  was  disturbed,  fumbled  round  for  the 
matches,  lit  the  oil-lamp  and  opened  the  door.  Two 
strangers  in  uniform  stood  outside ;  one,  a  tall  man  with 
a  heavy  beard,  held  a  lamp,  the  other,  a  sallow- faced, 
shrunken  individual,  hummed  a  tune  in  a  thin,  monoto- 
nous voice  and  picked  his  nose  with  a  claw-like  finger. 
The  two  entered,  brushing  against  the  girl  who  took  up 
her  stand  behind  the  door,  making  a  slight  rapping  noise 
with  her  heels  on  the  bare  floor. 

"How  many  here  ?"  asked  the  tall  man  with  the  beard. 

"Two,"  Norah  answered,  "the  woman  in  the  bed  and 
me." 

"No  one  else  under  the  bed  ?" 

"No  one,"  Norah  replied,  but  the  man  knelt  on  the 
floor,  lifted  the  bedclothes  and  peeped  under. 

"Only  one  in  the  next  room?"  asked  the  sallow- faced 
fellow,  pointing  at  Meg's  door. 

"Only  one  and  nobody  else." 

They  chose  not  to  believe  the  girl's  statement,  rapped 
on  the  door,  which  was  opened  after  a  long  delay  by  old 
Meg,  who  had  risen  naked  from  bed  and  was  now  hiding 
her  withered  body  behind  a  blanket  stamped  with  the  blue 
lettering.  The  sentence  STOLEN  FROM  JAMES 
MOFFAT  ran  from  the  left  knee  to  the  right  shoulder; 
the  left  shoulder  was  bare,  as  was  also  the  left  leg  from 
ankle  to  hip. 

"Only  one  here,"  she  croaked,  glowering  evilly  at  the 
men  who  had  disturbed  her  slumber.  "Christ!  an  auld 
body  has  no  peace  at  all  here,  for  there  are  always  some 


The  Passing  Days  245 

folk  crawlin'  round  when  decent  folk  are  in  bed.  Bed! 
callin'  it  a  bed  and  so  particular  about  it.  One  would 
almost  be  as  well  off  if  they  were  thrown  out  a  handful 
of  fleas  and  allowed  to  sleep  on  the  doorstep.  God's 
curse  on  ye  both,  comin'  at  this  hour  of  the  night  to  pull 
an  old  woman  like  me  from  my  scratcher." 

The  bearded  man  entered  the  room,  his  companion  took 
out  a  note-book  and  wrote  something  down,  shut  the  book 
and  placed  it  in  his  pocket.  The  tall  man  came  out  again ; 
both  bade  Norah  "Good-night"  in  apologetic  tones  and 
took  their  leave.  Sheila  had  slept  unmoved  through  it  all. 

The  young  girl  closed  the  door,  extinguished  the  light 
and  re-entered  the  bed.  She  was  very  tired,  but  sleep 
would  not  come  to  her  eyes.  An  hour  passed.  Sheila  was 
snoring  loudly,  but  Norah  awake  could  hear  the  water 
dropping  into  the  sink  on  the  landing,  and  the  vacant 
laugh  of  Bessie  escorting  a  man  upstairs.  At  night  this 
woman  never  slept ;  her  business  was  then  in  full  swing. 

Someone  knocked  at  the  door  again,  and  Norah  cried, 
"Who's  there?"  "Is  this  No.  8?"  enquired  a  man's 
voice.  Norah  answered,  "No,"  and  steps  shuffled  along 
the  passage  outside.  Next  instant  the  crash  of  someone 
falling  heavily  was  heard,  then  a  muttered  imprecation, 
and  afterwards  silence. 

Norah  fell  asleep  again. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

THE    NEW-COMER 


THREE  weeks,  laggard  and  leaden  in  movement, 
passed  away.  It  was  late  evening;  nine  o'clock 
was  just  striking,  and  Sheila,  true  to  her  usual 
habit,  counted  the  strokes  aloud. 

"The  clock  goes  faster  now  than  it  did  the  first  night 
I  was  here,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  they'll  all  be  goin'  to 
bed  in  Frosses  now,  or  maybe  sayin'  the  rosary.  Are  ye 
tired,  Norah?"  she  suddenly  asked  her  companion. 

"No,  not  tired,  only  .  .  ." 

"Maybe  ye  would  like  to  go  to  bed,"  said  Sheila,  antici- 
pating Norah's  desires  and  looking  very  wise. 

"I  think  that  ...  Oh !  it's  all  right,"  answered  Norah, 
an  expression  of  pain  passing  across  her  face. 

"I  know,"  said  Sheila,  laying  down  her  scissors  and 
stirring  up  the  fire,  which  was  brighter  than  usual.  "Ye 
must  go  to  bed  now  and  keep  yerself  warm,  child.  Ye'll 
be  all  right  come  the  mornin'." 

"I'm  very  unwell,  Sheila.  I  feel  .  .  .  No,  I'm  better 
again,"  said  Norah,  making  a  feeble  attempt  to  smile  and 
only  succeeding  in  blushing. 

She  undressed  to  her  white  cotton  chemise,  lay  down, 
and  Sheila  gathered  the  blankets  round  the  young  woman 
with  tender  hands.  Norah  appeared  calm,  her  fingers 
for  a  moment  toyed  with  the  tresses  over  her  brow,  then 

246 


The  New-Comer  247 

she  drew  her  hand  under  the  blankets.  Her  face  had 
taken  on  a  new  light ;  the  cold  look  of  despair  had 
suddenly  given  place  to  a  new  and  nervous  interest  in 
life  and  in  herself.  It  seemed  as  if  things  had  assumed 
a  new  character  for  her ;  as  if  she  understood  in  a  vague 
sort  of  way  that  a  woman's  life  is  always  woven  of 
dreams,  sorrow,  love,  and  self-sacrifice.  She  was  now 
waiting  almost  gladly,  impatient  for  the  most  solemn 
moment  in  a  woman's  life. 

"I'm  not  one  bit  afraid,"  she  said  to  the  serious  Sheila 
who  was  bending  over  her.  "Now  don't  be  frightened. 
One  would  think  .  .  ."  Norah  did  not  proceed.  It  was 
a  moment  of  words  half-spoken  and  the  listener  under- 
stood. 

Suddenly  Norah  sighed  deeply,  clutched  Sheila's  dress 
in  a  fierce  grip  and  closed  her  eyes  tightly  and  tensely. 
She  was  suffering,  but  she  endured  silently. 

"I'm  better  again,"  she  said  after  a  moment.  "Don't 
heed  about  me,  Sheila.  I'm  fine." 

The  older  woman  went  back  to  her  work  with  the 
large  shiny  scissors  and  the  bright  little  needle.  Only  the 
swish-swish  of  the  cutting  shears  and  the  noise  of  a  fall- 
ing cinder  could  be  heard  for  a  long  while.  On  the  roof 
wave-shadows  could  be  seen  rushing  together,  forming 
into  something  very  dark  and  breaking  free  again. 

"Will  ye  have  a  drop  of  tea,  Norah?" 

"No,  Sheila,"  said  the  girl  in  the  bed  in  a  low  strained 
voice :  then  after  a  moment  she  asked :  "Sheila,  will  ye 
come  here  for  a  minute  ?" 

A  cinder  fell  into  the  grate  with  a  sharp  rattle,  the 
scissors  sparkled  brightly  as  they  were  laid  aside.  Sheila 
rose  and  went  towards  the  bed  on  tiptoe. 

"I'm  not  needin'  ye  yet,"  said  Norah.  "I  thought  .  .  . 
I'm  better  again." 

The  woman  went  back  to  her  work,  stepping  even  more 


248  The  Rat-Pit 

softly  than  before.  The  night  slipped  away;  the  noises 
on  stair  and  street  became  less  and  less,  the  women  of 
No.  8  had  retired  to  their  beds,  a  drunken  man  sang 
homewards,  a  policeman  passed  along  with  slow,  solemn 
tread;  even  these  signs  of  life  suddenly  abated,  and  the 
noise  of  the  cutting  scissors,  the  clock  striking  out  the 
hours,  and  the  wind  beating  against  the  window  were 
all  that  could  be  heard  in  the  room. 

About  three  o'clock  the  sanitary  inspectors  called. 
Sheila  whispered  to  them  at  the  door  and  they  went  away 
muttering  something  in  an  apologetic  voice. 

The  grey  dawn  was  lighting  up  the  street;  the  blind 
had  been  drawn  aside  and  the  lamp  flickered  feebly  on 
the  floor.  Sheila  turned  it  down  and  approached  the  bed. 
On  Norah's  face  there  was  the  calmness  of  resignation 
and  repose.  She  had  suffered  much  during  the  night,  but 
now  came  a  quiet  moment.  Her  brow  looked  very  white 
and  her  cheeks  delicately  red.  Her  face  was  still  as 
beautiful  as  ever ;  even  so  much  the  more  was  it  beautiful. 

"There's  great  noises  in  the  streets,  Sheila,"  she  said 
to  the  woman  bending  over  her. 

"  'Tis  the  workers  goin'  out  to  their  work,  child,"  was 
the  answer.  "How  are  ye  feelin'  now?" 

"Better,  Sheila,  better." 

But  even  as  she  spoke  the  pain  again  mastered  her 
and  she  groaned  wearily.  And  Sheila,  wise  with  a  wom- 
an's wisdom,  knew  that  the  critical  moment  had  come. 


II 

THE  child  who  came  to  Norah,  the  little  boy  with  the 
pink,   plump  hands,  the   fresh  cheeks  and  pretty 
shoulders,  filled  nearly  all  the  wants  of  her  heart.    The 
fear  that  she  had  had  of  becoming  a  mother  was  past  and 


The  New-Comer  249 

the  supreme  joy  of  motherhood  now  was  hers.  She  knew 
that  she  would  be  jealous  of  the  father  if  he  was  with 
her  at  present;  as  matters  stood  the  child  was  her  own, 
her  very  own,  and  nothing  else  mattered  much.  Some- 
times she  would  sit  for  an  hour,  her  discarded  scissors 
hanging  from  her  fingers,  gazing  hungrily  at  the  saffron- 
red  downy  face  of  the  child,  anticipating  every  move- 
ment on  its  part,  following  every  quiver  of  its  body  with 
greedy  eyes.  In  the  child  lay  Norah's  hopes  of  salvation ; 
it  was  the  plank  to  which  she  clung  in  the  shipwreck  of 
her  eternity.  All  her  hopes,  all  her  fortunes  lay  in  the 
babe's  fragile  bed ;  the  sound  of  the  little  voice  was  heav- 
enly music  to  her  ears.  In  Norah's  heart  welled  up  this 
incomparable  love,  in  which  are  blended  all  human  affec- 
tions and  all  hopes  of  heaven,  the  love  of  a  mother.  The 
great  power  of  motherhood  held  her  proof  against  all 
evils;  dimly  and  vaguely  it  occurred  to  her  that  if  that 
restraining  power  was  withdrawn  for  a  moment  she 
would  succumb  to  any  temptation  and  any  evil  which 
confronted  her. 

She  found  now  a  great  joy  in  working  with  Sheila: 
both  talked  lovingly  of  home  and  those  whom  they  had 
left  behind.  Sometimes  Norah  mingled  tears  with  her 
recollections.  Sheila  Carrol  never  wept. 

"Years  ago  I  could  cry  my  fill,"  she  told  Norah,  "but 
for  a  long  while,  save  on  the  night  yerself  came  here, 
the  wells  of  my  eyes  have  been  very  dry." 

At  another  time  when  the  mother  was  giving  the  breast 
to  the  child  Sheila  said :  "Ye  look  like  the  Blessed  Virgin 
with  the  child,  Norah." 

A  difficulty  arose  about  the  child's  name :  that  of  the 
father  was  out  of  the  question. 

"One  of  the  Presses  names  for  me,"  said  Sheila. 
"Doalty,  Dony,  or  Dermod,  Murtagh,  Shan,  or  Fergus; 
Oiney,  Eamon,  or  Hudy ;  ah !  shure,  there's  hundreds  of 


250  The  Rat-Pit 

them!  All  good  names  they  are  and  all  belonging  to 
our  own  arm  of  the  glen.  The  trouble  is  that  there's  too 
many  to  pick  from.  We'll  be  like  the  boy  with  the 
apples;  they  were  all  so  good  that  he  didn't  know  what 
one  to  take  and  he  died  of  fargortha  while  lookin'  at 
them.  Dermod  or  Fergus,  which  will  it  be?"  asked  the 
beansho. 

"Dermod,"  said  Norah  simply. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  the  woman.  "And  I  hope  another 
Dermod  will  come  one  of  these  days  to  see  us.  Then 
maybe  .  .  .  Dermod  Flynn  was  a  nice  kindly  lad,  comely 
and  civil." 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

THE   RAG-STORE 


ONCE  a  week,  on  Friday,  Sheila  took  a  bundle  of 
finished  shirts  to  the  clothes-merchant's  office. 
Seven  months  after  Norah's  arrival  Sheila  went 
out  one  day  with  her  bundle  and  in  the  evening  the 
woman  did  not  return.  Midnight  came  and  went.  From 
the  window  Norah  watched  the  lazy  hands  of  the  clock 
crawl  out  the  seconds  of  existence.  Steps  could  be  heard 
coming  up  and  going  down  the  stairs;  then  these  sud- 
denly ceased.  Far  away  the  flames  flaring  from  the  top 
of  a  chimney-stack  glowed  fiercely  red  against  the  dark 
sky.  A  policeman  came  along  the  dimly  lighted  street, 
walking  with  tired  tread  and  examining  the  numbers  on 
the  closed  entrances.  He  suddenly  disappeared  below; 
afterwards  a  knock  came  to  the  door. 

"A  woman  was  run  down  by  a  tram-car,"  said  the 
policeman,  speaking  through  his  heavy  moustache,  when 
Norah  gave  him  admittance;  "she  was  killed  instantly. 
.  .  .  She  had  a  slip  of  paper  .  .  .  this  address  .  .  . 
maybe  you  can  identify." 

Norah  lifted  the  sleeping  babe,  wrapped  it  in  her  shawl 
and  followed  the  man.  At  the  police  mortuary  she 
recognised  Sheila  Carrol.  The  dead  woman  was  in  no 
way  disfigured ;  she  lay  on  a  wooden  slab,  face  upwards, 
and  still,  so  very  still ! 

251 


252  The  Rat-Pit 

"Sheila  Carrol !  .  .  .  she's  only  sleepin' !"  said  Norah. 

"Sheila  Carrol,  you  say,"  said  a  uniformed  man  who 
had  just  entered  and  who  overheard  Norah's  remark. 
"Twice  convicted,  once  for  being  on  the  streets,  once  for 
child  neglect,"  he  muttered,  looking  not  a  little  proud 
of  his  knowledge.  "The  back  of  the  head  and  the  spine 
that's  hurt.  When  one  is  struck  hard  in  them  places  it's 
all  over." 

Norah  felt  like  a  cripple  whose  crutches  have  been 
taken  away.  That  night  when  she  returned  to  her  room 
she  slept  none  and  wept  bitterly,  at  times  believing  that 
the  dead  woman  was  with  her  in  the  room.  Being  very 
lonely  she  kept  the  light  burning  till  morning,  and  as 
the  fire  had  gone  out  she  shivered  violently  at  intervals 
and  a  dry  tickling  cough  settled  on  her  chest. 

ii 

THE  merchant  who  supplied  cloth  to  the  two  women 
had  gone  bankrupt.  Probably  Sheila  was  so  much 
overwhelmed  by  this  that  she  forgot  to  avoid  the  dangers 
of  the  crowded  streets  on  her  way  home.  Perhaps  she 
was  planning  some  scheme  for  the  future,  and  as  is  the 
case  when  the  mind  dwells  deeply  on  some  particular  sub- 
ject, the  outside  world  was  for  a  while  non-existent  to 
her.  An  eye-witness  of  the  tragedy  said  that  Sheila  had 
taken  no  heed  of  the  oncoming  tram;  that  death  was 
instantaneous. 

When  morning  came  Norah  Ryan  was  conscious  of  a 
dull  sickly  pain  behind  her  left  shoulder-blade.  The  child 
slept  badly  during  the  night  and  coughed  feebly  when  it 
awoke.  There  were  no  matches  to  light  the  fire ;  a  half- 
loaf,  a  pennyworth  of  tea  and  a  quarter  hundred- weight 
of  coal  was  all  that  remained  in  the  room. 

Norah  went  into  Meg's  compartment.    The  door  was 


The  Rag-Store  253 

lying  open.  The  woman  sat  by  a  dead  fire,  having  just 
awakened  from  a  drunken  sleep  on  the  floor.  She  was  a 
kind-hearted  soul,  generous  and  sympathetic,  but  fond 
of  drink.  A  glass  of  whisky  made  her  very  tipsy,  two 
glasses  made  her  very  irritable. 

"Ye're  up  early,  lass,"  said  the  old  woman,  rising  to 
her  feet  and  scratching  her  head  vigorously.  "Is  Sheila 
sleepin'  yet?" 

"She's  dead." 

"Dead !"  exclaimed  old  Meg,  sitting  down  on  the  only 
chair  in  the  room  and  raising  both  hands,  palms  outwards, 
to  a  level  with  her  face. 

"A  tram  struck  her  last  night  when  she  was  comin' 
home,"  said  Norah.  "Killed  at  once,  the  policeman  said 
that  she  was." 

Meg  wept  loudly  for  a  few  moments,  then :  "What  are 
ye  goin'  to  do  now?"  she  asked,  drying  her  eyes. 

"I  don't  know." 

"There's  often  a  chance  goin'  in  the  rag-store  where  I 
work  and  it's  not  a  hard  job  at  all,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"The  job  may  be  a  wee  bit  dirty  and  clorty,  but  think  it 
over.  Six  shillin's  a  week  is  the  pay  to  start  wi',  then  it 
rises  to  eight." 

"Thanks  for  the  help  that  ye  are  to  me,"  said  Norah  ; 
"and  when  d'ye  think  that  I'll  get  the  job?" 

"Maybe  at  any  time  now,  for  there's  one  of  the  young 
ones  goin'  to  get  marrit  a  fortnight  come  to-morrow," 
said  the  old  woman.  "Then  there's  a  woman  that  lives 
at  No.  27  of  this  street,  Helen  McKay  is  her  name; 
'Tuppenny  Helen/  the  ones  on  the  stairhead  ca'  her.  She 
takes  care  of  children  for  twopence  a  day." 

"I'm  not  goin'  to  leave  my  child,"  cried  Norah.  She 
spoke  fiercely,  angrily.  "D'ye  think  that  I  would  give 
up  my  child  to  a  woman  like  Tuppenny  Helen  ?  God  sees 


254  The  Rat-Pit 

that  I  can  keep  my  own  child  whatever  happens  to 
me!" 

"Whatever  ye  say  it's  not  for  me  to  say  the  word  agen 
it,"  said  Meg,  surprised  at  Norah's  wrath. 

"Could  I  take  the  boy  with  me  if  I  get  a  job?" 

"Nae  fear ;  nae  fear  of  that,"  said  the  old  woman.  "It 
would  smother  a  child  in  a  week  in  yon  place.  Dust  flyin' 
all  over  the  place;  dirty  rags  with  creepin'  things  and 
crawlin'  things  and  maybe  diseases  on  them;  it's  a  foul- 
some  den.  But  folks  maun  eat  and  folks  maun  earn  siller, 
and  that's  why  some  hae  to  wark  in  a  place  like  a  rag- 
store.  But  dinna  take  the  child  wi'  ye  there.  For  one 
thing  ye  winna  be  allowed  and  for  another  the  feelthy 
place  would  kill  the  dear  little  thing  in  less  than  a  week." 

For  a  fortnight  following  Norah  looked  in  vain  for  a 
job  at  which  she  might  work  with  the  child  beside  her. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  the  old  woman  spoke  again  of  a 
vacant  post  in  the  store  where  she  laboured.  Norah  put 
the  child  out  to  Twopenny  Helen,  a  stumpy  little  woman 
with  very  large  feet  and  hacked  hands,  then  applied  for 
and  obtained  the  vacant  post  in  the  rag-store. 


ill 

IN  the  chill,  damp  air  of  the  early  morning  the  two 
women  tramped  to  their  work,  wearing  their  boots  to 
save  the  tram  fare.    The  old  woman  always  walked  with 
her  head  down,  humming  little  tunes  through  her  nose 
and  breaking  into  a  run  from  time  to  time.    Her  long  red 
tongue  was  always  out,  slipping  backwards  and  forwards 
over  her  upper  lip,  her  hair,  grey  as  a  dull  spring  morning, 
eternally  falling  into  her  eyes,  and  her  arms  swinging  out 
in  front  of  her  like  two  dead  things  as  she  trotted  along. 
The  rag-store  opened  out  on  a  narrow,  smelling  lane; 


The  Rag-Store  255 

the  office  where  a  few  collared  clerks  bent  over  grimy 
ledgers  and  endless  rows  of  figures  was  on  a  level  with 
the  street;  the  place  where  the  women  sorted  the  rags 
was  a  basement  under  the  office.  There  were  in  all  thirty 
human  machines  working  in  this  cellar,  which  stretched 
into  the  darkness  on  all  sides  save  one,  and  there  it  now 
and  again  touched  sunshine,  the  weak  sunshine  that 
streamed  through  a  dirty  cobwebbed  window,  green  with 
moisture  and  framed  with  iron  bars. 

All  day  long  two  gas-jets  flared  timidly  in  the  basement, 
spluttering  as  if  in  protest  at  being  condemned  to  burn 
in  such  a  cavern.  The  women,  bowed  over  their  work, 
were  for  the  most  part  silent ;  all  topics  of  conversation 
had  been  exhausted  long  ago.  Sometimes  Monday  morn- 
ing was  lively;  many  came  fresh  to  their  work  full  of 
accounts  of  a  fight  in  which  half  the  women  of  the  close 
joined  and  which  for  some  ended  in  the  lock-up,  for 
others  with  battered  faces  and  dishevelled  hair.  These 
accounts  roused  a  certain  interest  which  lasted  a  few 
hours,  then  came  the  obstinate  dragging  silence  again. 

All  day  long  they  worked  together  in  the  murky  cavern 
sorting  the  rags.  The  smell  of  the  place  was  awful,  suf- 
focating almost ;  the  damp  and  mouldy  rags  gave  forth  an 
unhealthy  odour;  dust  rose  from  those  that  were  drier 
and  filled  the  place  and  the  throats  of  the  workers.  Each 
woman  knew  every  wrinkle  of  her  neighbour's  face,  on 
all  the  yellowish  white  and  almost  expressionless  faces  of 
the  spectres  of  the  cellar.  And  now  and  again  the  spectres 
sang  their  ghost-songs,  which  died  away  in  the  lone 
corners  of  the  basement  like  wind  in  a  churchyard. 

It  was  amongst  these  women  that  Norah  started 
work. 

"A  new  start!"  exclaimed  one,  a  little  sallow- faced 
thing  who  looked  as  if  she  had  been  gradually  drying  up 


256  The  Rat-Pit 

for  several  years,  on  seeing  the  new-comer.  "Ye'll  soon 
get  the  blush  oot  o'  yer  cheeks  here,  lass!" 

"D'ye  know  that  there  are  only  three  people  in  the 
worl'  when  all  is  said  and  done?"  another  woman  called 
to  Norah.  "The  rag-picker,  the  scavenger,  and  the  grave- 
digger  are  the  three  folk  who  count  most  in  the  long  run." 

Everybody  but  Norah  laughed  at  this  remark,  though 
all,  save  Norah,  had  heard  it  made  a  thousand  times 
before. 

"Ah!  lass,  ye've  the  red  cheek,"  said  a  bow-legged 
girl  of  seventeen. 

"They'll  soon  be  pale  enough,"  another  interrupted. 

"And  such  white  teeth !" 

"They'll  soon  be  yellow !" 

"And  such  long  hair!" 

"It'll  soon  be  full  o'  dust." 

But  they  said  no  more,  perhaps  because  Norah  was  so 
beautiful,  and  beauty  calls  forth  respect  in  even  the 
coarsest  people. 

The  new  start  had  many  troubles  at  first.  Being  new 
to  the  work  and  unable  to  do  as  much  as  the  other  women, 
she  was  paid  only  five  shillings  a  week.  After  a  while 
the  natural  dexterity  of  her  fingers  stood  her  in  good 
stead,  and  she  became  more  adept  at  the  rag-picking  than 
anyone  in  the  basement.  Therefore  her  companions  who 
had  before  laughed  at  her  inexperience  became  jealous  of 
Norah  and  accused  her  of  trying  to  find  favour  with  the 
boss. 

But  the  girl  did  not  mind  much  what  they  said;  her 
one  great  regret  was  in  being  separated  from  her  boy 
for  the  whole  livelong  day.  Her  breasts  were  full  of  the 
milk  of  motherhood,  and  severance  from  the  little  child 
was  one  of  the  greatest  crosses  which  she  had  to  bear. 

The  master  seldom  came  near  the  place ;  it  didn't  agree 
with  his  health,  he  said.  He  was  a  stout,  well-built  man 


The  Rag-Store  257 

with  small,  glistening  eyes  overhung  with  heavy  red 
brows.  The  hairs  of  his  nostrils  reached  half-way  down 
his  upper  lip  and  he  was  very  bald.  When  the  women 
saw  the  bald  head  appear  at  the  foot  of  the  basement 
stairs,  shining  a  little  as  the  gaslight  caught  it,  they 
whispered : 

"There's  the  full  moon ;  turn  yer  money !"  and  one  of 
the  workers  who  was  very  fond  of  swearing  would  in- 
variably answer:  "There's  not  much  money  in  the 
pockets  o'  them  that's  workin'  in  this  damned  hole!" 

Whenever  he  came  down  into  the  rag-store  he  took  the 
bow-legged  girl  to  one  side  and  spoke  to  her  about  some- 
thing. The  two  seemed  to  be  on  very  familiar  terms  and 
it  was  stated  that  the  girl  got  a  far  higher  wage  than  any 
of  the  other  workers;  ten  shillings  a  week  was  paid  to 
her,  some  hinted.  Suddenly,  however,  she  left  the  place 
and  did  not  come  back  again :  but  now  the  master  came 
down  the  stairs  oftener  than  ever  before.  One  evening 
just  as  work  was  stopping  the  moon-head  appeared,  shone 
for  a  moment  under  the  gaslight,  then  came  forward. 

"There's  some  linen  rags  here  that  I  want  sorted  up 
to-night,"  he  said,  licking  his  lips.  "I  want  one  of  ye  to 
stay  here  and  do  the  work." 

He  looked  round  as  he  spoke  and  his  eyes  rested  on 
Norah,  who  was  wrapping  her  shawl  over  her  shoulders. 

"Will  ye  stay  here?"  he  asked. 

"All  right,"  said  Norah,  and  took  off  her  shawl  again. 

The  rest  of  the  workers  went  upstairs,  a  bit  envious 
perhaps  of  the  girl  who  was  picked  out  for  special  work 
in  the  fetid  hole.  Master  and  servant  were  left  alone,  but 
Norah  wished  that  she  had  gone  away  with  the  rest ;  she 
wanted  so  much  to  see  her  child.  The  cough  which  the 
little  boy  had  contracted  on  the  night  of  Sheila  Carrol's 
death,  ten  months  before,  had  never  gone  wholly  away, 
and  now  it  was  worse  than  ever.  The  mother  herself  was 


258  The  Rat-Pit 

not  feeling  very  well ;  the  sharp  pain  in  her  chest  troubled 
her  a  great  deal  at  night. 

"Ye're  a  good  sorter,  I  hear,"  said  the  master,  licking 
his  lips,  and  Norah  noticed  the  hairs  of  his  nostrils  quiv- 
ering as  if  touched  by  a  breeze.  "Ye'll  not  live  well  on 
seven  shillin's  a  week,  will  ye?"  he  asked. 

"One  must  live  somehow,"  said  Norah,  bending  down 
and  picking  up  a  handful  of  rags  from  the  floor.  "And  a 
few  shillin's  goes  a  long  way  when  one  is  savin'." 

She  started  even  as  she  spoke,  for  a  large  soft  hand  had 
gripped  her  wrist  and  she  looked  up  to  find  her  master's 
little  glistening  eyes  looking  into  hers.  She  could  see  the 
wrinkles  on  his  forehead,  the  red  weal  that  the  rim  of  his 
hat  had  left  on  the  temples,  the  few  stray  hairs  that  yet 
remained  on  the  top  of  the  pink  head. 

"What  would  ye  be  wantin'  with  me?"  she  asked. 

"I  could  raise  yer  screw,  say  to  ten  bob  a  week,"  said 
the  man,  slipping  his  arms  round  her  waist  and  trying  to 
kiss  her  on  the  lips.  If  one  of  the  dirty  rags  had  been 
thrust  into  her  mouth  she  could  not  have  experienced  a 
more  nauseous  feeling  of  horror  than  that  which  took  pos- 
session of  her  at  that  moment.  She  freed  herself  violently 
from  the  grasp  of  the  man,  seized  her  shawl  and  hurried 
upstairs,  leaving  him  alone  in  the  cellar.  In  the  office  she 
had  a  misty  impression  of  a  grinning  clerk  looking  at  her 
and  passing  some  meaningless  remark.  When  she  got 
back  to  her  room  she  told  Meg  of  all  that  had  happened. 

"Ye're  a  lucky  lass,  a  gie  lucky  lass,"  said  the  old 
woman  enviously.  "Just  play  yer  cards  well  and  ye'll 
soon  hae  a  pund  a  week  in  the  store.  I  heard  to-day 
about  the  bowdy  girl  that  left  us  a  month  gone.  The 
master  had  a  fancy  for  her  but  a  mistake  happened  and 
she  was  in  straw.  But  it's  now  all  right  and  she's  gettin' 
a  pund  a  week.  Just  ye  play  yer  cards  well,  Norah  Ryan, 
and  ye'll  have  a  gey  guid  time,"  she  added. 


The  Rag-Store  259 

"Meg  Morraws !" 

"Ha,  ha !"  cried  the  old  woman,  laughing  and  showing 
her  yellow  stumps  of  teeth,  worn  to  the  gums.  "That's 
the  way  to  act.  Carry  on  like  that  with  him  and  he'll  do 
onything  ye  ask,  for  ye're  a  comely  lass;  a  gey  comely 
one !  Often  I  wondered  why  ye  stayed  so  long  workin'  in 
the  rag-store.  Life  could  be  made  muckle  easier  by  a  girl 
wi'  a  winnin'  face  like  yours,  Norah  Ryan.  God !  to  think 
that  a  girl  like  ye  are  warkin'  in  that  dirty  hole  when 
ye  could  make  ten  times  as  muckle  siller  by  doin'  some- 
thin'  else!" 


IV 


NORAH  did  not  go  back  to  the  rag-store.  She  took 
her  child  from  Twopenny  Helen  and  looked  for 
other  work.  The  boy  with  his  round  chubby  legs  and 
wonderful  pink  toes,  which  she  never  tired  of  counting, 
was  a  wonder  and  delight  to  her.  Everything  was  so 
fresh  about  him,  the  radiant  eyes,  the  red  cheeks  that 
made  the  mother  so  much  long  to  bite  them,  the  little 
soft  lips  and  the  white  sharp  teeth  that  were  already 
piercing  through  the  gums.  The  child  was  dressed 
poorly,  but,  as  befitted  a  sanctuary  before  which  one  hu- 
man being  prostrated  herself  with  all  the  unselfish  devo- 
tion of  a  pure  heart,  with  the  best  taste  of  the  worshipper. 
The  cold  which  the  child  caught  months  before  had 
never  entirely  gone  away;  whenever  the  cough  that  ac- 
companied it  seized  him  he  curled  up  in  his  mother's  lap 
in  agony,  while  she  feared  that  the  little  treasure  that  she 
loved  so  much  was  going  to  be  taken  away.  The  thought 
of  the  boy  dying  occurred  to  her  many  times  and  almost 
shattered  the  springs  of  action  within  her.  If  he  died! 
She  shuddered  in  terror ;  her  fear  was  somewhat  akin  to 
the  fear  which  possesses  a  man  who  hangs  over  a  preci- 


260  The  Rat-Pit 

pice  and  waits  for  the  overstrained  rope  to  break.  If  the 
child  was  gone  she  would  have  nothing  more  to  live  for. 

Her  funds  were  very  low ;  when  she  left  the  rag-store 
she  had  only  the  sum  of  nineteen  shillings  in  her  posses- 
sion. This  would  pay  rent  for  a  few  weeks,  but  mean- 
while food,  fuel,  and  clothing  were  needed.  What  was 
she  to  do? 

Then  followed  weary  days  searching  for  work.  Norah 
went  from  house  to  house  in  the  better  parts  of  the  city, 
offering  herself  for  employment.  She  left  the  child  lying 
on  a  bed  on  the  floor  and  locked  the  place  up.  She  no 
longer  sent  it  out  to  Twopenny  Helen;  Norah  could  not 
now  spare  twopence  a  day. 

Again  she  got  work,  this  time  finishing  dongaree 
jackets,  and  made  tenpence  a  day.  She  had  now  to  work 
on  Sunday  as  well  as  Saturday,  and  she  usually  spent 
eighteen  hours  a  day  at  her  task.  Winter  came  and 
there  was  no  coal.  The  child,  whose  cold  got  no  better, 
was  placed  in  bed  while  the  mother  worked.  The  dry  and 
hacking  cough  shook  the  mother's  frame  at  intervals  and 
she  sweated  at  night  when  asleep.  She  ate  very  little; 
her  breasts  were  sore  when  she  suckled  her  child,  and  by 
and  by  milk  refused  to  come.  Her  eyes  became  sore;  she 
now  did  part  of  her  work  under  the  lamp  on  the  landing 
and  by  the  light  from  the  window  across  the  courtyard. 
Old  Meg,  when  she  was  drunk,  had  pence  to  spare  for 
the  child. 

"Just  for  the  little  thing  to  play  wi',"  she  would  explain 
in  an  apologetic  voice,  as  if  ashamed  of  being  found  guilty 
of  a  good  action.  Afterwards  she  would  add :  "Ye 
should  have  taken  the  twa  extra  shillin's  a  week  when 
they  were  offered  ye." 

One  evening  towards  Christmas  when  the  old  woman 
was  speaking  thus,  Norah  asked : 

"If  I  went  back  now,  would  I  get  a  job?" 


The  Rag-Store  261 

"The  man  has  got  marrit  and  the  place,  as  ye  know 
yerself,  has  been  filled  up  ages  and  ages  ago." 

A  strange  expression,  perhaps  one  of  regret,  showed 
for  a  moment  on  the  face  of  Norah  Ryan. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

DERMOD  FLYNN 


WHEN  the  old  woman  left  her,  Norah  sat  for  a 
while  buried  in  thought,  her  scissors  lying 
on  one  knee,  one  hand  hanging  idly  by  her 
side.  The  boy  was  very  ill,  the  cough  hardly  left  him 
for  a  moment  and  his  eyes  were  bright  and  feverish. 

"If  he  dies  what  am  I  to  do?"  Norah  asked  herself 
several  times.  "Then  it  would  be  that  I'd  have  nothing 
to  live  for." 

She  rose  and  followed  Meg  into  the  room.  The  woman 
sat  beside  the  fire,  humming  an  old  song.  A  candle,  stuck 
in  the  neck  of  a  beer-bottle,  was  alight,  and  a  cricket 
chirped  behind  the  fireless  grate.  "I'm  goin'  out  for  a 
while,"  said  Norah  in  a  low,  strained  voice.  "Will  ye 
look  after  the  boy  until  I  come  back?  I'll  take  him  in 
here." 

"All  right,"  said  the  woman,  rising  to  her  feet.  "Take 
the  little  thing  in." 

When  Norah  re-entered  her  own  room  the  boy  was 
coughing  weakly  but  insistently  in  the  darkness.  She  lit 
a  candle,  sat  down  on  the  corner  of  the  bed  and  was 
immediately  deep  in  thought.  Her  money  had  now 
dwindled  away;  she  had  only  one  and  threepence  in  her 
possession.  She  even  felt  hungry;  for  a  long  while  this 
sensation  was  almost  foreign  to  her.  The  weekly  rent 
was  due  on  the  morrow,  and  the  child  needed  the  doctor, 

262 


Dermod  Flynn  263 

needed  food,  needed  fresh  air  and,  above  all,  the  attention 
which  she  was  unable  to  give  him. 

She  lifted  him  tenderly  from  the  bed  and  carried  him 
in  to  Meg,  who  began  to  crow  with  delight  when  the  child 
was  placed  in  her  withered  arms.  Once  back  in  her  own 
room  Norah  resumed  her  seat  on  the  bedside  and  seemed 
to  be  debating  some  very  heavy  problem.  The  candle 
flared  faintly  in  the  sconce  on  the  floor ;  large  shadows 
chased  one  another  on  the  grimy  ceiling  .  .  .  the  cripple 
came  upstairs,  Norah  could  hear  the  rattle  of  his  crutches 
.  .  .  the  noise  of  the  city  was  loud  outside  the  windows. 

Norah  rose,  swept  the  floor,  lit  the  lamp,  a  thing  which 
she  had  not  done  for  many  nights,  candles  being  much 
cheaper  than  oil.  She  went  out,  bought  some  coal  and 
a  penny  bundle  of  firewood :  these  she  placed  on  the 
grate,  ready  for  lighting.  The  bed  she  sorted  with 
nervous  care,  sighing  as  she  spread  out  the  blankets  and 
arranged  the  pillows. 

She  then  began  to  dress  herself  carefully,  brushing 
back  her  hair  with  trembling  fingers  as  she  looked  into 
the  little  broken  hand-mirror,  one  of  Sheila  Carrol's  be- 
longings. Her  well-worn  dress  still  retained  a  certain 
coquetry  of  cut  and  suited  her  well,  her  broad-brimmed 
hat,  which  she  had  not  worn  for  a  long  while,  gave  an 
added  charm  to  her  white  brow  and  grey  eyes. 

When  dressed  she  stood  for  a  moment  to  listen  to  the 
child  coughing  in  Meg's  room.  Stifling  with  an  effort 
the  impulse  to  go  in  and  have  one  look  at  the  boy,  she 
crossed  herself  on  forehead  and  lips  and  went  out  on 
the  landing.  For  a  moment  something  seemed  to  perplex 
her ;  she  stood  and  looked  round  on  all  sides.  The  place 
was  deserted ;  nothing  could  be  heard  but  the  cripple 
singing  "Annie  Laurie"  in  a  loud,  melodious  voice. 
Norah  again  crossed  herself,  stepped  slowly  down  the 
stairs,  and  went  out  to  the  street. 


264  The  Rat-Pit 

ii 

AT  midnight  she  returned  for  her  child.  The  boy  was 
still  coughing,  but  more  quietly  than  before,  and 
the  old  woman  was  lying  flat  upon  her  stomach,  asleep 
by  the  fireside.  Norah  lifted  the  child,  took  him  into  her 
own  room  and  placed  the  frail  bundle,  in  which  was 
wrapped  up  all  her  life  and  all  her  hopes,  on  the  bed. 

The  fire  was  burning  brightly,  the  oil-lamp  gave  out  a 
clear,  comforting  light  which  showed  up  the  whole  room, 
the  bare  floor,  the  black  walls  enlivened  by  no  redeeming 
feature  save  the  crude  picture  of  the  Virgin  and  Child 
and  the  little  black  cross  hanging  from  a  rusty  nail  near 
the  window;  the  pile  of  dongaree  jackets  shoved  into  a 
corner,  the  orange-box  and  the  bed  with  the  blankets, 
which  Norah  had  sorted  such  a  short  time  before,  now  in 
strange  disorder. 

Old  Meg  suddenly  bustled  into  the  room,  a  frightened 
look  on  her  face.  "I  thought  that  some  yin  had  stolen 
the  little  dear,"  she  cried,  her  breath  reeking  with  alcohol. 
"Ah,  here  he  is,  the  wee  laddie,"  she  cooed  on  seeing  the 
little  pink  face  in  the  bed.  "I  hae  got  a  fright,  I  hae 
indeed,  Norah  Ryan!" 

The  woman  sat  down  on  the  orange  box  and  looked 
curiously  round,  first  at  the  lighted  lamp,  then  at  the  fire, 
then  at  Norah,  and  afterwards  back  to  the  fire  again. 

"Hae  ye  got  siller  the  noo,  lassie?"  she  exclaimed  at 
last.  "Has  yer  rich  uncle  kicked  the  bucket?  Fire  and 
light  the  noo  and  everything?  Ah!  what's  this?"  she 
exclaimed,  bending  down  and  lifting  a  half-smoked  ciga- 
rette from  the  floor.  She  looked  at  it  for  a  moment, 
then  threw  it  into  the  flames. 

"Has  it  come  to  this,  Norah  Ryan?"  she  asked,  and  a 
faint  touch  of  regret  mingled  with  the  woman's  tones. 

Norah,  who  was  bending  over  the  child,  turned  round 


Dermod  Flynn  265 

fiercely;  for  a  moment  she  looked  like  some  beautiful 
animal  cornered  in  its  own  lair. 

"It  has  come  to  this,  Meg  Morraws!"  she  shouted. 
"Did  ye  think  that  I  couldn't  sell  my  soul?  I  would  do 
anything  under  heaven  to  save  my  boy;  that's  the  kind 
of  me,  Meg  Morraws.  I've  money  now  and  Dermod 
won't  die.  I  won't  let  him  die !  .  .  .  What  wouldn't  I  do 
for  him,  child  of  my  own  and  of  my  heart?  .  .  .  It's  ill 
luck  that's  drawin'  me  to  ruin,  Meg,  but  not  the  boy.  He 
can't  help  the  sickness  and  it's  myself  that  has  got  to  make 
him  well  again.  ...  I  had  whisky  this  night :  that  made 
me  brave.  I  could  .  .  .  Isn't  it  time  that  ye  were  in  bed, 
Meg  Morraws?  I'm  not  feelin'  kind  towards  anyone  but 
the  child.  I  want  no  one  here  but  Dermod,  my  little  boy." 

Meg  went  into  her  room,  closing  the  door  softly  behind 
her.  Norah  took  some  money — five  shillings — from  her 
pocket  and  put  it  on  the  mantelpiece,  under  the  picture 
of  the  Virgin  and  Child.  It  made  a  tinkling  sound  as  she 
put  it  down  and  the  silver  coins  sparkled  brightly. 

Then  she  turned  down  the  light,  threw  some  more  coals 
on  the  fire,  and  taking  the  child  from  the  bed  she  sat 
down  and  held  the  little  bundle  of  pink  flesh  against  her 
bosom.  She  could  hear  the  water  bubbling  from  the  tap 
out  on  the  landing ;  the  noise  of  footsteps  on  the  stairs ; 
loud,  vacant  laughter  from  No.  8.  Why  did  those  women 
laugh,  Norah  wondered.  .  .  .  The  fire  blazed  brightly, 
and  as  she  raised  her  eyes  she  could  see  the  silver  coins 
on  the  mantelpiece  shining  like  stars. 


in 

SOMEONE  rapped ;  and  receiving  no  answer,  the  care- 
taker,   the    woman    with    the    red    wisps    of    hair, 
and  a  string  for  a  neck,  poked  her  head  through  the 
door. 


266  The  Rat-Pit 

"Not  in  bed  yet,  Norah  Ryan?"  she  asked. 

"Just  goin',"  the  girl  answered. 

"They're  doin'  a  big  trade  at  No.  8  the  night,"  said 
the  woman. 

"I'm  not  wantin'  to  hear;  it's  nothing  to  me." 

The  caretaker  smiled,  showing  her  teeth,  sharp  as  a 
dog's  and  in  a  good  state  of  preservation. 

"I'm  only  just  tellin'  ye,"  said  the  woman.  "I  suppose 
ye  ken,  lassie,  that  half  the  rooms  up  this  stair  are  lyin' 
idle,  wi'  no  yin  to  take  them.  What  is  the  reason  for 
that  ?  I'll  tell  ye.  Some  people,  decent  folk,  ye  ken,  will 
not  come  to  sic  a  place  because  they  dinna  like  women  of 
the  kind  at  No.  8.  If  these  two  women  were  put  away, 
this  landing  would  be  fillt  ev'ry  night.  But  I  let  the 
women  stay.  Why's  that?  Because  I  like  fair  play. 
Give  everyone  a  chance  to  live,  is  what  I  say.  And 
they're  makin'  guid  siller,  them  twa  lassies  at  No.  8. 
Three  pounds  a  night  between  them  sometimes.  And  I 
wouldna  turn  them  oot ;  wouldna  do  it  for  wurl's,  because 
I  like  fair  play.  But  as  ye  ken  yersel',  they  must  pay  me 
a  little  more  than  other  lodgers." 

"What  do  ye  want  me  to  pay  extra?"  asked  Norah  in 
a  hard  voice.  "Tell  me  at  once  and  leave  me  to  meself." 

"Say  half  and  half,"  answered  the  red-haired  woman, 
glaring  covertly  at  the  Irish  girl.  "That'll  be  fair,  for 
ye'll  earn  the  money  very  easy,  so  to  speak.  And  then 
ye  can  stay  here  as  long  as  ye  like.  I  wouldna  turn  ye 
oot,  no  for  onything,  because  I  like  fair  play.  It's  not 
ev'ry  house,  ye  ken,  that  would  .  .  .  But  ye  know  what 
I  mean.  I  wish  ye  good-night,  and  I'll  make  a  note  of 
all  the  men  that  come  up.  And  if  the  police  come  along 
I'll  gi'e  ye  the  wink.  Good-night  and  good  luck !" 

The  woman  went  out,  but  presently  poked  her  red  wisps 
in  again.  "I'll  take  it  that  every  man  I  see  comin'  in 
here  gies  ye  five  bob.  If  they  gie  ye  more  ye  can  tell  me ; 


Dermod  Flynn  267 

but  five  bob'll  be  the  least,  and  half  and  half  is  fair 
play.    Good-night ;  good-night  and  good  luck !" 

"A  dirty  hag  she  is!"  said  old  Meg,  who  had  been 
listening  at  the  door  during  the  conversation  and  who 
now  came  into  the  room.  "Dirty !  and  her  makin'  piles 
of  tin.  Full  of  money  she  is  and  so  is  the  woman  that 
owns  the  buildin'.  Mrs.  Crawford  they  cry  her,  and  she 
lives  oot  in  Hillhead,  the  rich  people's  place,  and  goes  to 
church  ev'ry  ^Sunday  with  prayer  books  under  her  arm. 
Strike  me  dead !  if  she  isn't  a  swine,  a  swine  unhung,  a 
swine  and  a  half.  Has  a  motor  car  too,  and  is  always 
writin'  to  the  papers  about  sanitary  arrangements.  'It 
isn't  healthy  to  have  too  many  people  in  the  one  room,' 
she  says.  But  I  ken  what  she's  up  to,  her  with  her  sani- 
tary and  her  fresh  air  and  everything  else,  the  swine !  If 
few  people  stay  in  ev'ry  room  she  can  let  more  of  them ; 
God  put  her  in  the  pit,  the  swine!  And  the  woman 
downstairs,  the  thin-necked  serpent!  is  just  as  bad.  If 
the  likes  of  her  finds  women  like  me  and  you  goin'  to 
hell  they  try  to  rob  us  outright  before  Old  Nick  puts 
his  mits  on  our  shoulders." 


IV 

IN  the  days  which  followed,  Norah  learned  much  which 
may  not  be  written  down  in  books,  sad  things  that 
many  dare  not  read,  but  which  some,  under  the  terrible 
tyranny  of  destiny,  dare  to  endure.  It  now  seemed  to 
the  girl  that  all  freedom  of  action,  all  the  events  of  her 
life  had  been  irrevocably  decided  before  she  was  born. 
Deep  down  in  her  heart  this  thought,  lacking  expression 
and  almost  undefined,  was  always  with  her. 

She  bought  new  dresses,  learned  the  art  of  making 
every  curl  on  her  white  brow  look  tempting,  and  every 


268  The  Rat-Pit 

movement  of  her  face  and  body  to  express  desires  which 
she  did  not  feel.  She  followed  up  her  new  profession 
like  one  sentenced  to  death,  with  reason  clogged,  feeling 
deadened  and  intellect  benumbed.  As  an  alternative  to 
this  there  was  nothing  but  starvation  and  death,  and  even 
purity  is  costly  at  such  a  price.  Dragged  to  the  tribunal 
which  society  erects  for  the  prosecution  of  the  poor  and 
pure,  she  was  asked  to  renounce  all  that  she  cherished,  all 
her  hopes,  her  virginity,  her  soul.  Society,  sated  with 
the  labour  of  her  hands,  asked  for  her  soul,  and  society, 
being  the  stronger,  had  its  demand  gratified. 

But  over  it  all,  over  the  medley  of  pain  and  sorrow, 
over  the  blazing  crucible  of  existence  in  which  all  fair 
dreams  and  hopes  of  the  woman  were  melted  away, 
greater  and  more  powerful  than  anything  else  in  Norah's 
life,  intense  and  enduring,  unselfish  and  pure,  shone  the 
wonderful  flame,  the  star  of  passionate  love  shining  in  the 
holy  heaven  of  motherhood. 

The  child's  illness  grew  worse.  One  doctor  was  called 
in ;  then  another.  Both  looked  wise  for  a  moment,  strove 
to  appear  unconcerned,  passed  different  verdicts  and 
went  away.  One  condemned  the  bedclothes;  they  were 
unsanitary.  Norah  procured  new  clothes ;  but  the  child 
became  worse.  Medicines  were  bought  one  day;  they 
were  condemned  the  next.  A  pretty  pink  dress  was  ob- 
tained for  the  child;  it  did  not  suit.  When  taken  back 
to  the  clothes-seller  he  declared  it  was  ruined  and  charged 
afresh  for  new  garments. 

So  day  after  day,  each  full  of  a  killing  anxiety  and 
bringing  its  own  particular  trouble,  passed  by.  Her 
house  had  attained  a  certain  fame  as  houses  of  the  kind 
rapidly  do. 

The  hooligans  who  stood  at  the  street  corner  soon  knew 
her  by  repute,  for  an  ill  name  flies  far  and  sticks  fast. 
Little  Tommy  Macara  looked  in  at  her  door  no  more ;  the 


Dermod  Flynn  269 

boy's  mother  had  warned  him  against  the  woman.  Life 
was  now  to  Norah  one  vast  intolerable  burden  that 
crushed  her  down.  If  only  the  child  were  dead  things 
would  be  clearer;  then  she  would  know  what  to  do.  If 
Dermod  died  everything  would  be  simplified;  one  easy 
plunge  into  the  river  where  it  swirled  under  Glasgow 
Bridge  would  for  ever  end  all  heartbreak  and  sorrow. 


NORAH  went  out  into  the  city  on  her  usual  errand ; 
she  had  now  known  the  life  of  the  streets  for  fully 
two  months.  It  was  nearly  midnight,  the  streets  were 
well  nigh  deserted,  save  for  the  occasional  prowlers  and 
drunken  men  who  were  coming  home  from  their  clubs 
or  from  the  foul  haunts  of  the  city. 

As  she  walked  along,  her  head  held  down  against  the 
cutting  breeze  that  had  suddenly  risen  and  was  now 
whirling  round  every  corner,  she  heard  steps  coming  be- 
hind her,  and  in  these  steps  she  detected  something 
strangely  familiar.  For  a  moment  she  felt  like  a  wayfarer 
who  goes  al^nie,  along  a  dark  road,  and  waits  for  some 
horrible  apparition  to  stretch  out  from  the  darkness  and 
put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  The  steps  drew  nearer,  came 
closer  .  .  .  somebody  was  passing  her.  Norah  looked 
up,  started  a  little  and  cried : 

"Under  God,  the  day  and  the  night!  It's  Dermod 
Flynn  that's  in  it!" 

She  was  again  looking  at  Dermod  Flynn ;  he  stood  in 
front  of  her,  his  hand  stretched  out  in  welcome. 

"Is  this  you,  Norah?"  he  asked. 

The  crushing  fatality  of  her  years  pressed  down  upon 
her;  she  suddenly  realised  that  she  had  lost  something 
very  precious;  that  all  her  accidents  and  faults  were 


270  The  Rat-Pit 

bunched  together  and  now  laid  before  her.  He  had 
grown  so  big  too;  a  man  he  looked. 

"Is  it  yerself  that's  in  it,  Dermod  Flynn?"  she  asked. 
"I  didn't  expect  to  meet  you  here.  Have  ye  been  away 
home  since  I  saw  ye  last?"  She  thought  she  detected  a 
wave  of  pity  sweeping  over  Dermod's  face  and  resting 
in  his  eyes. 

"I  have  never  been  at  home  yet,"  he  answered.  "Have 
you?" 

"Me  go  home!"  she  replied  almost  defiantly.  "What 
would  I  be  going  home  for  now  with  the  black  mark  of 
shame  over  me  ?  D'ye  think  that  I'd  darken  me  mother's 
door  with  the  sin  that's  on  me,  heavy  on  me  soul  ?  Some- 
times I'm  thinkin'  long,  but  I  never  let  on  to  anybody, 
and  it's  meself  that  would  like  to  see  the  old  spot  again. 
It's  a  good  lot  I'd  give  to  see  the  grey  boats  of  Dooey 
goin'  out  beyond  Trienna  Bar  in  the  grey  duskus  of  the 
harvest  evenin'.  D'ye  mind  the  time  ye  were  at  school, 
Dermod,  and  the  way  ye  struck  the  master  with  the 
pointer  ?" 

"I  mind  it  well,"  said  Dermod  with  a  laugh,  "and  you 
said  that  he  was  dead  when  he  dropped  on  the  form." 

"And  d'ye  mind  the  day  that  ye  went  over  beyont  the 
mountains  with  the  bundle  under  yer  arm  ?  I  met  ye  on 
the  road  and  ye  said  that  ye  were  never  comin'  back." 

"You  did  not  care  whether  I  returned  or  not.  You  did 
not  stop  to  bid  me  good-bye." 

"I  was  frightened  of  ye,"  answered  Norah,  who  noticed 
that  Dermod  spoke  resentfully,  as  if  she  had  been  guilty 
of  some  unworthy  action. 

"Why  were  ye  frightened  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know." 

"And  you  did  not  even  turn  to  look  after  me!" 

"That  was  because  I  knew  that  ye  yerself  was  lookin' 
round." 


Dermod  Flynn  271 

"Do  you  remember  the  night  on  the  Deny  boat?" 
Dermod  asked  wistfully. 

"Quite  well,  Dermod,"  she  replied.  "I  often  be  thinkin' 
of  them  days,  I  do  indeed." 

There  was  a  momentary  silence.  Norah  dreaded  the 
next  question  which  instinctively  she  knew  Dermod  would 
ask.  He  was  better  dressed  than  formerly,  she  noticed, 
and  he  was  tall  and  strong.  She  felt  that  he  was  one  in 
whom  great  reliance  could  be  placed. 

"Where  are  you  going  at  this  hour  of  the  night?"  he 
asked,  and  Norah  read  accusation  in  his  tones. 

"I'm  goin'  out  for  a  walk,"  she  answered. 

"Where  are  you  workin'?" 

"How  much  does  he  know?"  Norah  asked  herself. 
What  could  she  tell  him?  That  she  was  a  servant  in  a 
gentleman's  house.  But  even  as  the  lie  was  stammering 
on  her  tongue  she  faltered  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Don't  cry,"  said  the  young  man  awkwardly.  "Is 
there — what's  wrong  with  ye,  Norah?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  low  sobs  shook  her  bosom. 
How  much  she  wished  to  be  away,  and  yet — how  she 
liked  to  be  beside  him !  Surely  Dermod  would  think  her 
a  very  funny  girl  to  weep  like  that!  A  momentary 
remembrance  of  a  morning  long  ago  when  she  met  him  on 
the  Glenmornan  road  flashed  across  her  mind,  and  she 
held  out  her  hand. 

"Slan  agiv,  Dermod,"  she  said  in  a  choking  voice,  "I 
must  be  goin'.  It  was  good  of  ye  to  speak  to  me  in  that 
nice  way  of  yers,  Dermod." 

His  hand  closed  on  hers  but  he  did  not  speak.  The 
sound  of  far-off  footsteps  reached  her  ears.  ...  A  win- 
dow was  lifted  somewhere  near  at  hand  ...  a  cab  rat- 
tled on  the  streets.  Norah  withdrew  her  hand  and  went 
on  her  journey,  leaving  Dermod  alone  on  the  pavement. 


CHAPTER   XXX 


GROWN    UP 


TO  all  souls  who  are  sensitive  to  moods  of  any 
kind,  whether  joyful  or  sorrowful,  there  comes 
now  and  again  a  delicious  hour  when  it  is  not 
night  and  no  longer  day ;  the  timid  twilight  gleams  softly 
on  every  object  and  favours  a  dreamy  humour  that  weds 
itself,  as  if  in  a  dream,  to  the  dim  play  of  light  and 
shade.  In  that  delightful  passage  of  time  the  mind 
wanders  through  interminable  spaces  and  dwells  lovingly 
on  vanished  hopes,  broken  dreams,  and  shattered  illusions. 
In  that  moment  a  soul  feels  the  wordless  pleasure  of  a 
memory  that  drifts  lightly  by;  a  memory  to  which  only 
the  accents  of  the  heart  can  give  life.  Old  scenes  are 
brought  up  again  and  are  seen  in  the  delightful  haze  of 
transient  remembrance;  there  are  waters  running  to  a 
sea;  waves  sobbing  on  a  shore;  voices  speaking  softly 
and  low,  and  trees  waving  like  phantoms  to  a  wind  that 
is  merely  the  ghost  of  a  wind.  In  these  dreams  there  is 
a  joyful  melancholy,  a  placid  acceptance  of  sorrow  and 
happiness  that  might  have  only  been  realities  of  an  earlier 
existence  of  long  past  years. 

An  hour  like  this  came  to  Norah  Ryan  one  evening  as 
she  sat  in  her  room  waiting  for  a  fight  to  come  to  an  end 
on  the  landing  outside.  The  one-armed  soldier,  who  had 
just  returned  from  prison  and  found  another  man  in 

272 


Grown  Up  273 

company  with  one  of  his  loves,  was  now  blackening  the 
man's  eyes.  Norah  knew  that  she  would  be  molested 
when  passing  outside;  she  chose  to  wait  until  the  storm 
was  over.  She  was  dressed  ready  to  go  out ;  old  Meg  had 
taken  charge  of  the  child ;  the  fight  was  still  in  full  swing. 
A  fire  burned  dimly  in  the  grate  at  which  Norah  sat;  a 
frail  blue  fleeting  flame  flared  nervously  for  a  moment 
amongst  the  red  tongues  of  fire,  then  faded  away.  The 
blind  was  drawn  across  the  window,  but  the  lamp  had  not 
been  lighted  yet.  Norah  sat  on  the  floor,  looking  into 
the  glowing  embers,  her  chin,  delicately  rounded,  resting 
in  the  palm  of  her  hand,  her  long,  tapering  fingers  touch- 
ing a  little  pink  ear  that  was  almost  hidden  under  her  soft, 
wavy  tresses.  The  faintest  flush  mantled  her  cheeks,  her 
brow  seen  in  the  half-light  of  the  room  looked  doubly 
white,  and  her  long  lashes  sank  languidly  from  time  to 
time  over  her  dream-laden  eyes. 

Norah's  thoughts  were  far  away ;  they  had  crossed  the 
bridge  of  many  years  and  roved  without  effort  of  will 
over  the  shores  of  her  own  country.  Again  she  lived  the 
life  of  a  child,  the  life  she  had  known  in  her  earlier 
years.  The  air  was  full  of  the  scent  of  the  peat,  the 
sound  of  the  sea,  the  homesick  song  of  the  streams  bab- 
bling out  their  plaints  as  they  hurried  to  the  bosom  of 
their  restless  mother,  the  ocean. 

It  was  evening.  The  sun,  barely  a  hand's  breadth  over 
the  horizon,  coloured  the  waters  of  the  bar  and  the  sea 
beyond,  amber,  crimson,  and  dun.  The  curraghs  of 
Frosses  were  putting  out  from  the  shore ;  the  bare-footed 
men  hurried  along  the  strand,  waving  their  arms  and 
moving  their  lips,  but  making  no  sound.  Fergus  was 
there,  light-limbed  and  dark-haired ;  her  father,  wrinkled 
and  bearded ;  the  neighbours  and  the  women  and  children 
who  came  down  to  the  beach  to  see  the  people  off  to  the 
fishing. 


274  The  Rat-Pit 

One  dream  blended  with  another.  It  was  morning: 
the  sun  tipped  the  hills  and  lighted  Glenmornan ;  strips  of 
gold  in  the  clouds  of  the  east  were  drawn  fine  as  the 
wrinkles  on  the  brow  of  a  woman ;  a  jnist  rose  from  the 
holms  of  Frosses,  and  the  water  of  the  streams  sparkled 
merrily.  In  the  pools  trout  were  leaping,  breaking  the 
glassy  surface  and  raising  a  shower  of  rainbow  mist  that 
dissolved  in  the  air.  A  boy  came  along  the  road;  there 
was  a  smile  on  his  face  and  his  eyes  were  full  of  dreams, 
as  the  eyes  of  a  youth  who  goes  out  to  push  his  fortune 
well  may  be.  In  one  hand  he  carried  a  stick,  in  the 
other  a  bundle.  Dermod  Flynn  was  setting  out  for  the 
hiring  fair  of  Strabane.  .  .  . 


ii 

SO  Norah  Ryan  dreamt,  one  vision  merging  into  another 
and  all  bringing  a  long-lost  peace  to  her  soul.  She 
did  not  hear  the  first  rap  at  the  door,  nor  the  second. 
The  third  knock,  louder  and  more  imperative  than  the 
others,  roused  her  to  a  sense  of  her  surroundings.  In 
the  fabric  of  her  existence  the  black  thread  of  destiny 
again  reappeared  and  she  rose,  pushed  back  the  erring 
lock  of  hair  from  her  white  forehead,  placed  some  more 
coal  on  the  fire,  turned  up  the  lamp  and  lit  it,  then  went 
and  opened  the  door.  A  young  man  dressed  in  sailor's 
garb,  his  face  cut  and  covered  with  blood,  stood  on  the 
threshold;  behind  him  on  the  ground  lay  a  prostrate 
figure,  the  man  with  the  empty  sleeve. 

"Come  in,"  said  Norah.  She  did  not  look  at  the  vis- 
itor ;  all  men  were  the  same  now  to  her ;  all  were  so  much 
alike.  The  sailor  rubbed  a  handkerchief  over  his  face, 
staggered  past  the  girl  and  sank  into  a  chair. 

"What's    that    one-armed    swine    doin'?"    he    cried. 


Grown  Up  275 

"Strikin'  a  man,  an  A.B.  before  the  mast,  without  any 
reason ;  him  and  his  gabblin'  fools  of  women !  But  I 
learned  him  something  I  did.  One  on  the  jowl  and  down 
he  went.  An  A.B.  before  the  mast  stands  no  foolin'.  Has 
he  got  up?"  he  called  to  the  woman  at  the  door. 

The  ex-soldier  staggered  to  his  feet  on  the  landing,  and 
swore  himself  along  the  passage.  Norah  closed  the  door. 

"He's  up  on  his  feet  and  away  to  his  own  room,"  she 
informed  the  sailor. 

"This  No.  8?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  answered  Norah.  "It's  three  doors  round  on  the 
left;  I'll  show  you  where  it  is." 

"But  is  this  house  one  like  No.  8  ?" 

"The  same." 

"Then  I'll  stay,"  said  the  sailor,  who  was  still  busy 
with  his  face.  "I  heard  tell  of  No.  8  out  abroad.  I'm  an 
A.B.,  you  know.  Before  the  mast  on  half  the  seas  of 
the  world !  I  met  a  sailor  who  was  here ;  not  here,  but  at 
No.  8.  Ah !  he  had  great  stories  of  the  place.  So  I  said 
that  I'd  come  here  too,  if  ever  I  came  to  Glasgow.  Damn ! 
that  one-armed  pig  he  almost  blinded  me,  did  the  beggar. 
But  I  gave  one  to  him  on  the  jowl  that  he'll  not  forget. 
.  .  .  Where  can  I  wash  my  face?" 

"On  the  landing,"  Norah  told  him,  and  handed  the 
man  a  towel. 

He  went  out  and  washed.  Presently  he  re-appeared 
and  Norah  took  stock  of  him.  He  was  dressed  in  sailors' 
garb ;  his  eyes  were  hazy  from  intoxication,  one  of  his 
hard  and  knotted  hands  was  tattooed  on  the  back,  his 
dark  and  heavy  moustache  was  draggled  at  both  ends 
and  a  red  scar  on  his  right  cheek-bone  showed  where 
the  soldier  had  hit  him.  He  was  young,  probably  not  over 
thirty  years  of  age.  He  sat  down  again. 

"D'ye  know  what  it  is?"  he  exclaimed,  striking  his 
fist  heavily  against  his  knee.  "A  woman  of  yer  kind  may 


276  The  Rat-Pit 

be  as  good  as  most  and  better  than  many.  I  always  say 
that,  always.  Some  of  them  may  be  bad,  but  for  the 
others " 

He  banged  his  fist  again  against  his  knee  and  paused  as 
if  collecting  words  for  an  emphatic  finish  to  his  sentence. 

"Others  are  as  good  as  pure  gold,"  he  concluded.  He 
was  silent  for  a  moment  as  if  deep  in  thought,  then  he 
fixed  his  eyes  on  the  girl.  "Come  here  and  sit  on  my 
knee,"  he  said. 

She  sat  down  on  his  knee  and  laughed,  but  her  laugh 
was  forced  and  hollow. 

"Ye're  unhappy,"  said  the  man,  looking  at  her  fixedly, 
and  stroking  his  face  with  his  hand.  "Don't  say  that  ye 
aren't,  for  I  know  that  ye  are.  Ye'll  be  new  at  this  game, 
maybe.  .  .  .  D'ye  belong  to  Glasgow?" 

"I  do." 

"Ye  talk  like  an  Irish  girl." 

"My  father  was  Irish." 

"Ah!  that  explains  it,"  said  the  man.  "I'm  Irish,  ye 
know." 

"Are  ye?"  exclaimed  Norah  with  a  start. 

"I  am  that,"  said  the  man.  "Why  do  ye  jump  like  ye 
do?  Maybe  ye're  frightened  of  me?" 

"No." 

"Maybe  it's  yer  first  time  at  this  work?" 

The  girl  made  no  answer.  Her  cheeks  were  scarlet 
and  she  felt  as  if  she  could  burst  into  tears,  but  stifled 
bravely  the  sob  that  rose  to  her  throat. 

"Don't  be  frightened  of  me,"  said  the  man.  "We 
sailors  are  a  rough  lot  at  times,  but  we  respect  beauty,  so 
to  speak.  My  God,  ye're  a  soncy  lookin'  wench.  New 
to  this  kind  of  life  as  well!" 

He  paused. 

"And  what's  this?"  he  cried,  glancing  at  the  Virgin's 
picture  and  the  little  black  crucifix.  He  turned  to  the 


Grown  Up  277 

girl  and  saw  that  a  tear  which  she  hastily  tried  to  brush 
away  was  rolling  down  her  cheek. 

"Ye're  a  Catholic  too,"  he  said  in  a  milder  voice.  "It's 
damned  hard  luck.  I  myself  am  a  Catholic,  at  least  I 
was  born  one,  but  now  I'm — well,  I'm  nothin'.  ...  A 
Catholic  feels  it  most.  .  .  .  I've  always  said  that  one  may 
find  women  a  great  lot  worse  than  women — than  a 
woman  like  yerself .  The  ladies  that  can  gorge  themselves 
at  table  when  ye  have  to  do  the  likes  of  this  for  a  livin' 
are  more  guilty  of  yer  sin  than  ye  are  yerself.  ...  Ye 
know  I'm  a  bit  drunk ;  not  much  wrong  with  me,  though, 
for  I  can  see  things  clearly.  If  I'm  a  bit  groggy  'twas 
mostly  the  fault  of  that  one-armed  swine.  But  I  forgive 
him  .  .  .  I'm  an  advanced  thinker.  .  .  .  What  is  yer 
name  ?" 

"Jean." 

"I  mean  yer  real  name.  It's  rarely  that  an  Irishman 
calls  his  children  by  names  unbeknown  in  his  own  coun- 
try. Sit  closer.  There!  ye're  a  nice  girl.  I  like  yer 
brow,  it's  so  white,  and  yer  lips,  they're  so  pretty.  Now, 
give  me  a  kiss.  It's  nice  to  have  a  girl  like  yerself  on  my 
knee.  I'm  three  sheets  in  the  wind,  but  I  like  ye.  I'm  an 
advanced  thinker  and  I've  read,  oh !  ever  so  much :  Dar- 
win, Huxley.  Have  ye  ever  heard  of  these  men?" 

"Never,"  Norah  answered.     "Who  are  they?" 

"They  are  the  great  minds  of  the  world.  They  are  the 
men  who  proved  that  there  was  no  heaven  and  no  God." 

"But  there  is  a  God !" 

"If  there  is,  why  do  ye  suffer  like  this?" 

"Because  I'm  bad." 

"Ha !  ha !"  laughed  the  man.  "How  funny !  how  very 
funny!  Ye  are  a  child,  and  God  would  feel  honoured 
if  ye  allowed  Him  to  lace  yer  shoes.  If  ye  kept  very 
good  and  pure  He  might  let  ye  to  heaven  when  ye  died — 
but  would  He  give  ye  a  pair  of  shoes  in  mid- winter?  .  .  . 


278  The  Rat-Pit 

There's  no  God.  .  .  .  Kiss  me  again.  By  heaven !  If  ye 
weren't  so  good  lookin'  and  so  temptin'  I'd  be  generous. 
I'd  go  down  on  my  knees  and  salute  ye  as  a  representative 
of  sufferin'  womankind,  and  then  go  away  feelin'  hon- 
oured if  ye  only  allowed  me  to  kiss  your  hand.  But  ye 
are  so  winsome !  I  should  like  ye  to  be  always  pure,  but 
why  do  men  like  purity  in  a  woman?  They  like  it  so 
that  they  can  take  it  away,  so  that  they  can  kill  that  which 
they  love.  But  what  am  I  talkin'  about  anyway?  I'm 
drunk;  not  so  much — just  three  sheets  in  the  wind  or  so. 
I  can  see  things  clearly.  I'm  a  learned  man  and  I  know 
things,  bein'  a  great  traveller,  and  a  worker  on  half  the 
docks  in  the  world,  and  a  sailor  too.  A.B.  before  the 
mast  I  am.  I've  seen  things  in  my  time,  many  things, 
most  of  them  unjust,  very  unjust.  It's  seven  years  since 
I  left  home,  think  of  that!  Yer  father  came  from  Ire- 
land, ye  say.  What  part  of  the  country  did  he  come 
from?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Norah  in  a  low  voice.  "I  never 
asked  him.  What  part  of  Ireland  did  ye  come  from?" 

"I  said  that  it  is  an  unjust  world,  a  danged  unjust 
world,"  said  the  man,  pressing  her  tightly  and  kissing  her. 
"And  in  Ireland  ye  see  more  injustice  than  can  be  seen 
anywhere  in  half  the  world.  I've  seen  women  and  girls 
in  Ireland  working  for  a  penny  a  day.  They  were  knittin' 
socks  and  they  had  to  travel  miles  for  the  yarn ;  aye, 
and  to  cross  an  arm  of  the  sea  that  took  them  to  their 
breasts.  In  the  height  of  winter,  too,  with  the  snow 
fallin'  and  the  sleet.  Ah!  if  yerself  had  suffered  such 
hardships  ye  wouldn't  live  to  tell  the  tale.  And  children 
too  had  to  go  out  into  the  cold  black  water !  My  sister,  a 
very  little  girl — just  about  that  size" — the  sailor  held  out 
his  hand  about  two  feet  from  the  ground — "used  to  work 
fourteen  hours  a  day  when  she  was  but  twelve,  and  her 
pay  was  sevenpence  ha'penny  a  week !  The  hanged  little 


Grown  Up  279 

thing !  and  she  wasn't  that  size.  .  .  .  But  I've  made  some 
money — salvage,  ye  know — and  I'm  goin'  to  make  my 
sister  a  lady  when  I  go  back  to  Donegal.  She  was  such 
a  nice  wee  girl.  Wouldn't  it  be  fine  if  girls  always  kept 
young !  I  think  of  my  sister  now  as  I  left  her,  not  grown 
up  at  all.  ...  Ye  too  are  a  nice  lass,  so  different  from 
those  I've  seen  in  the  far  corners  of  the  world." 

"What  is  yer  name?"  asked  Norah  in  a  tremulous 
whisper.  But  she  knew  his  name,  recognised  her  brother 
Fergus,  saw  in  his  face  that  indescribable  individuality 
which  distinguishes  each  face  from  all  others  in  the 
world.  With  tense,  strained  look  she  waited  for  the 
answer  to  her  question. 

in 

FERGUS  RYAN  of  Presses  in  the  county  Donegal," 
replied  the  sailor,  banging  his  fist  against  the  cor- 
ner of  the  chair.  "Fergus  Ryan,  able-bodied  seaman 
before  the  mast.  I've  sailed  ever  such  a  lot.  Singapore, 
Calcutta,  New  York,  and  Melbourne;  I've  seen  all  those 
places,  aye,  and  nearly  all  the  countries  of  the  world! 
.  .  .  Ah!  and  I've  come  across  a  lot  of  trouble,  fighting 
and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Two  times  a  knife  was  left  stickin' 
in  me ;  more  than  once  I  was  washed  into  the  sea.  Ah ! 
I  could  tell  ye  things  about  other  places  if  I  liked.  .  .  . 
What's  wrong  with  ye?  Ye  seem  scared.  But  ye're  not 
afraid  of  sailors,  are  ye?  They're  all  decent  fellows, 
honest,  though  a  little  careless  at  times.  My  God !  what's 
comin'  over  ye?  Ye're  goin'  to  faint!" 

Norah  had  suddenly  become  heavy  in  the  man's  arms ; 
the  hand  which  he  held  contracted  tightly  and  a  sickly 
pallor  overspread  her  countenance. 

"Jean!"  cried  the  sailor,  staring  at  the  girl  with  a 
puzzled  expression.  "Jean!  that's  not  yer  name,  but  it 


280  The  Rat-Pit 

doesn't  matter.  Ye  aren't  afraid  of  sailors,  are  ye? 
They're  rough  fellows,  most  of  them,  but  good  at  heart. 
Has  a  man  never  told  ye  before  that  he  got  stuck  in  the 
ribs  with  a  knife?  Women  here  know  nothin',  but  in 
Calcutta  .  .  .  What  am  I  talkin'  about  anyhow?  Jean, 
waken  up!" 

The  man  rose  unsteadily,  and  bearing  the  senseless  girl 
in  his  arms  he  approached  the  bed  and  laid  her  down 
carefully,  sorting  with  clumsy  fingers  the  stray  tresses 
on  her  brow  as  he  did  so.  Then  seizing  a  glass  that  stood 
on  the  mantelpiece,  he  rushed  out  and  filled  it  with  water 
from  the  tap  on  the  landing.  He  came  in,  held  Norah 
up  in  his  arms,  and  pressed  the  glass  to  her  lips.  She 
opened  her  eyes. 

"Drink  this,"  said  the  sailor.  "What  else  can  I  do  to 
help  ye?" 

"Leave  me  to  myself,"  said  the  girl.  "Go  away  and 
leave  me.  At  once,  now!"  She  sat  upright  in  bed  and 
freed  herself  from  his  arms ;  the  glass  fell  to  the  floor  and 
broke  with  a  musical  tinkle;  the  water  splashed  brightly 
and  formed  into  little  wells  on  the  planking.  The  sailor 
put  his  hands  between  his  belt  and  trousers  and  gazed 
placidly  at  the  girl. 

"Now,  that  is  too  bad,"  he  said,  speaking  slowly ;  "too 
dashed  bad !  All  sailors  are  decent  fellows  at  heart,  only 
now  and  then  they  tell  stories  about  their  wild  life.  All 
that  I  said  about  the  knifing  was  just  a  tale." 

"I  haven't  mind  of  what  ye  said,"  Norah  replied  in  a 
whisper,  then  in  a  louder  voice :  "Go  away !  do  go  away 
and  leave  me  to  myself." 

"I'm  not  goin'  now,"  he  said  in  a  voice  of  reproof.  "I 
cannot  go;  it's  impossible!  I've  plenty  of  money. 
Look!"  He  pulled  a  handful  of  gold  from  his  pocket. 
"My  God !  I  cannot  leave  ye  now,  I  cannot.  Why  do 
ye  want  me  to  go  away?" 


Grown  Up  281 

Norah  looked  at  the  picture  of  the  Virgin  and  shud- 
dered as  if  something  had  stung  her.  Suddenly  it  came 
to  her  that  Fate  had  done  its  worst ;  that  evil  and  unhap- 
piness  had  reached  their  supreme  climax.  She  looked 
hard  at  her  brother,  a  fixed  and  almost  defiant  look  in 
her  eyes,  her  lips  set  in  a  firmly-drawn  line. 

"Why  do  ye  want  me  to  go  away  ?"  he  repeated. 

"Because  I'm  yer  sister  Norah,  the  one  that  wouldn't 
be  grown  up  when  ye  went  back."  She  felt  a  grim,  un- 
natural satisfaction  in  repeating  the  man's  words,  and 
strangely  enough  her  voice  was  wonderfully  calm.  "I 
made  a  mistake  and  it  was  all  my  own  fault.  This  is 
how  I'm  livin'  now — a  common  woman  of  the  streets. 
Now  go  away  and  leave  me  to  myself.  Fergus,  I'm 


grown  up 


"Ye're  my  sister,  ye're  Norah?"  said  the  man  as  the 
girl  freed  herself,  almost  reluctantly,  from  his  arms.  He 
stepped  backwards,  paused  as  if  he  wanted  to  say  some- 
thing, approached  the  door,  fumbled  for  a  moment  with 
the  knob,  and  went  out.  On  the  stairway  he  stood  as  if 
trying  to  collect  his  thoughts. 

"Where  am  I?"  he  muttered.  "It  used  to  be  red 
creepin'  things  before,  and  besides,  I'm  not  very  drunk 
at  present,  not  more  than  three  sheets.  .  .  .  But  the  pic- 
ture of  the  Blessed  Virgin — that  was  funny!  Fergus 
Ryan,  A.B.,  are  ye  drunk  or  are  ye  mad?  Look  around 
ye!  This  is  a  flight  of  stairs,  wooden  steps;  this  is  an 
iron  railin',  that's  a  window.  Now,  ye  aren't  very  drunk 
when  ye  can  notice  these  things.  That's  where  the  one- 
armed  swine  struck  me.  Now  I'll  look  at  my  watch.  A 
quarter  past  nine.  If  I  was  in  the  D.T.'s  I  couldn't  tell 
the  time.  Besides,  I  know  where  I  am  at  present.  On 
the  stairway  leadin'  to  a  Glasgow  kip-shop,  and  I've  been 
dreamin'.  No,  I  haven't  been  dreamin',  I'm  mad !  Talkin' 
to  my  sister,  to  Norah!  One  does  dream  funny  things. 


282  The  Rat-Pit 

She  isn't  a  person  like  that.  .  .  .  Seven  years  is  a  long 
time  and  a  lot  might  happen.  I'll  walk  along  the  street 
to  the  quay  and  maybe  the  air  off  the  river  will  clear  me 
up  a  bit.  I'll  come  back  here  and  free  her  from  the  place, 
for  I've  money,  plenty  of  it.  ...  I'm  afraid  of  nothin', 
nothin'  in  the  world.  Why  should  I,  me  with  the  track 
of  two  knives  in  my  body  ?  But  what  is  the  use  of  talkin' 
when  I'm  awfully  sick  with  fear  at  this  moment !  God ! 
I've  never  ran  up  against  a  thing  like  this  in  all  my  life 
before.  .  .  .  Have  I  not,  though  ?  Are  they  not  all  some- 
body's sisters,  some  mother's  children?  I've  never 
thought  of  it  in  that  way  before.  I'll  go  up  again." 

He  reached  the  top  and  tried  to  push  the  door  open.  It 
did  not  budge.  He  put  his  ear  to  the  keyhole  and  heard 
sobs,  smothered  as  if  by  a  hand,  very  near  him.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  door  Norah  was  weeping. 

"That's  my  sister,"  he  whispered  hoarsely.  Looking 
down  he  saw  the  light  shining  through  the  splintered 
door.  A  cavity  through  which  he  might  pass  his  fist  lay 
open  before  him.  He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  took 
out  several  pieces  of  gold  and  shoved  them  into  the  room ; 
then  turned  down  the  stairs  and  hurried  out  into  the 
crowded  streets. 

IV 

AT  the  end  of  an  hour  he  found  himself  sitting  on  a 
capstan  by  the  river,  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his 
head  buried  in  his  hands.    He  could  not  tell  how  he  had 
gotten  there ;  his  brain  was  throbbing  dizzily  and  myriad 
little  red  and  blue  spots  danced  before  his  eyes. 

The  place  was  very  dark,  the  sickly  light  of  the  few 
lamps  along  the  river  did  not  light  more  than  a  dozen 
yards  around  them.  On  the  deck  of  a  near  boat  a  sailor 
walked  up  and  down,  stamping  his  feet  noisily  and  whis- 
tling a  popular  music-hall  tune.  Overhead  a  few  stars 


Grown  Up  283 

glimmered  soberly ;  a  smell  of  pitch  was  in  the  air ;  a  boat 
loosened  from  her  moorings  was  heading  downstream. 
About  fifty  paces  back  from  the  wharf  a  public-house 
opened  out  on  the  river.  Dark  forms  stood  at  the  bar, 
arms  were  waving  in  discussion,  and  hoarse  voices  could 
be  heard  distinctly.  Against  the  garish  light  the  smallest 
perpendicular  object  was  outlined  in  black.  Now  and 
again  a  fist  banged  on  a  table  and  the  glasses  raised  a 
silvery  tinkle  of  protest  against  the  striker.  A  woman 
came  out  of  the  place  and  went  on  her  way  along  the 
street,  reeling  from  side  to  side  and  giving  utterance  to 
some  incoherent  song.  The  water  lapped  against  the 
wharf,  a  little  wind  wailed  past  Fergus'  ears;  he  rose, 
stretched  his  arms,  took  a  cigarette  from  his  pocket  but 
threw  it  away  when  it  was  lighted. 

"It's  lonely  here,  but  in  the  pub  a  man  may  forget 
things,"  he  said.  "I  wish  to  heaven  I  could  think  of  any- 
thing but  it !  I'll  try  and  forget  it,  but  it's  hard,  danged 
hard.  ...  If  I  had  a  fight  I'd  forget,  for  a  moment  at 
least,  what  I  have  just  seen.  My  sister  Norah?  And 
once  I  struck  a  sailor  because  he  said  that  no  girl  was 
as  good  as  I  made  out  my  sister  to  be.  ...  A  whore! 
my  God,  a  whore !  I'll  go'ver  to  the  pub  and  get  drunk, 
mad  drunk !  What  matters  now  ?  I'll  not  go  home,  I'll 
never  go  home !" 

Thrusting  his  hands  under  his  belt,  he  crossed  the 
street,  entered  the  public-house  and  called  for  a  glass  of 
whisky  at  the  bar.  His  face  was  haggard  and  the  palms 
of  both  his  hands  were  bleeding. 

"I've  driven  my  nails  into  them,"  he  said  aloud,  and 
looked  round  angrily.  Those  who  were  staring  at  him 
turned  away  their  eyes,  renewed  their  conversation  and 
raised  their  glasses  to  their  lips  with  evident  unconcern. 
Fergus  lifted  his  liquor  and  swallowed  all  at  one  gulp. 

"The  same  again!"  he  shouted  to  the  bar-tender,  and 


284  The  Rat-Pit 

lit  another  cigarette.  "No,  not  the  same;  gi'  me  a 
schooner  and  a  stick  *  in  it.  God  damn  ye !  what  are  ye 
starin'  at  ?" 

The  bar-tender  who  was  examining  Fergus  attentively 
made  no  reply,  but  emptied  out  the  liquor  hastily.  For 
a  moment  Fergus  was  deep  in  thought.  Suddenly  rousing 
himself  he  struck  the  counter  a  resounding  blow  with  his 
fist,  ripping  his  knuckles  on  the  woodwork  and  causing 
everybody  in  the  room  to  look  round.  Then  he  swallowed 
his  drink  and  went  towards  the  door.  With  his  hand  on 
the  handle,  he  looked  back.  "I'm  sorry  for  kickin'  up  a 
noise,"  he  said.  "Good-night." 

He  passed  out.  The  ray  of  light  from  the  door  showed 
him  staggering  across  the  street  towards  the  quay.  Once 
there  he  sat  down  on  the  capstan,  put  his  hand  in  his 
pocket  and  brought  out  a  fistful  of  money.  He  raised  it 
over  his  head  and  for  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  he  was 
going  to  throw  it  into  the  water.  However,  he  kept  hold 
of  it  and  returned  to  the  pub,  where  he  purchased  a  half- 
pint  of  whisky.  He  placed  a  sovereign  on  the  counter 
and  went  out  without  his  change. 

Ten  o'clock  passed ;  then  eleven.  Fergus  Ryan  paced 
up  and  down  the  quay,  his  hands  deep  down  under  his 
belt  and  the  half-empty  bottle  in  his  pocket.  The  air  was 
now  moist  and  cold ;  a  smell  of  rotting  wood  pervaded  the 
place,  and  the  water  under  the  wharf  was  wailing  fitfully. 
The  mooring  ropes  of  the  nearest  vessel  strained  tensely 
on  the  capstan  and  the  giant  vessel  seemed  eager  as  a 
stabled  colt  to  get  out,  away  and  free. 

"I  would  like  to  know  where  that  boat  is  goin'  when 
she  sails,"  Fergus  said,  but  instantly  his  thoughts  turned 
to  something  else.  He  pulled  out  his  watch  and  looked 
at  it. 

"Would  anyone  know  a  new  day  if  the  clocks  did  not 
*  A  pint  of  beer  and  a  glass  of  whisky  mixed. 


Grown  Up  285 

chime?"  he  asked  himself  in  a  puzzled  way.  "I  suppose 
not.  It'll  soon  be  here,  the  new  day.  .  .  .  There,  the 
clocks  are  beginnin'.  Damn  them!  Damn  them!  .  .  . 
If  it  had  been  anyone  but  my  sister !  Why  did  she  come 
to  Scotland?  Landlord,  priest,  and  that  arch-scoundrel, 
McKeown,  livin'  on  her  earnin's.  I  suppose  she'll  send 
home  money  even  now,  and  some  of  it'll  go  to  the  priest 
to  buy  crucifixes  and  pictures  of  the  Virgin,  and  some  of 
it  to  the  landlord  to  buy  flounces  for  his  wife,  and  some 
will  go  to  Farley  McKeown.  I  was  goin'  to  pay  a  sur- 
prise visit  and  I  was  livin'  on  that  goin'  home  for  a  long 
while.  Ah!  but  the  world  is  out  at  elbow.  And  I'm 
drunk!" 

He  stuck  both  his  hands  under  his  belt  again  and  ap- 
proached the  edge  of  the  wharf.  Three  dark  forms  slunk 
out  of  the  shadows  and  drew  in  on  the  sailor.  Only  when 
they  were  beside  him  did  anything  warn  him  of  danger. 
He  looked  round  into  the  face  of  the  one-armed  soldier, 
whose  loose  sleeve  was  fluttering  in  the  wind. 

"Ah !  ye  swine !"  Fergus  exclaimed  and  struggled  with 
the  belt  which  prisoned  his  hands.  But  the  three  men 
were  on  top  of  him  and  the  effort  was  futile.  In  an  in- 
stant he  was  flung  outwards  and  dropped  with  a  splash 
into  the  water  that  seemed  to  rise  and  meet  him  as  he 
fell.  It  was  as  cold  as  ice  and  the  belt  held  taut  despite 
his  efforts  to  break  free.  He  had  a  moment  to  wonder. 
"Why  did  he  want  to  drown  me?"  he  asked  himself. 
His  mouth  filled  and  he  swallowed.  He  was  now  going 
down  head  first,  but  slowly.  He  made  another  effort  to 
free  his  hands,  but  was  unsuccessful.  Then  he  resigned 
himself  to  his  fate,  and  consciousness  began  to  ebb  from 
him.  He  felt  that  he  had  forgotten  something  that  was 
very  important,  not  to  himself  but  to  somebody  else. 
Then  came  complete  darkness,  and  the  book  of  life,  as 
man  knows  it,  was  closed  forever  to  Fergus  Ryan. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 


DESPAIR 


THE  light  on  the  mantelpiece  grew  faint,  flickered 
and  was  going  out ;  the  wick,  short  and  draggled, 
no  longer  reached  the  oil.  The  fire  died  down 
and  only  one  red  spark  could  be  seen  glowing  in  the 
white  ashes.  Twelve  of  the  clock  struck  out  slowly  and 
wearily,  as  if  the  chimes  were  tired  of  their  endless  toil. 
On  the  floor  beside  the  door  a  pile  of  sovereigns,  scat- 
tered broadcast,  glowed  bright  even  under  the  dying 
light ;  the  figure  on  the  black  crucifix  showed  very  white, 
save  where  the  daub  of  red  paint  told  of  the  Saviour's 
wounded  side. 

Norah  sat  on  the  bare  floor,  one  leg  stretching  out,  her 
hands  clasped  tightly  round  the  knee  of  the  other,  which 
was  almost  drawn  up  to  her  chin.  Action  was  clogged 
within  her,  a  terrible  black  monotony  was  piled  around 
and  above  her ;  a  silence,  not  even  broken  by  sighs,  had 
taken  possession  of  the  girl. 

Old  Meg  rapped  at  the  door  many  times  before  Norah 
heard  her;  then  she  rose,  poured  some  oil  into  the  lamp 
and  turned  up  the  light.  Afterwards,  not  because  she 
wanted  to,  but  because  she  was  desirous  of  hiding  from 
everybody  that  which  had  taken  place  within  the  room 
during  the  last  few  hours,  she  lifted  the  gold  pieces  and 
stuffed  them  into  the  pocket  of  her  dress. 

286 


Despair  287 

"Norah  Ryan!  Norah  Ryan!"  the  old  woman  was 
crying  outside  the  door.  A  dim,  hazy  thought  of  all  the 
good  things  which  the  gold  would  buy  for  her  child 
crossed  Norah's  mind  as  she  opened  the  door. 

"The  little  fellow  has  taken  a  turn,"  the  old  woman 
said  as  she  stepped  inside  and  looked  curiously  round. 
Of  late  Norah's  compartment  had  had  a  curious  interest 
for  her:  how  many  times  each  night  between  the  hours 
of  six  and  twelve  did  she  come  to  the  door  and  listen  to 
all  that  was  going  on  inside.  "I  thought  that  ye'd  never 
hear,"  she  said.  "I  was  knockin'  and  knockinV 

"He'll  soon  be  better  now,"  Norah  said  in  a  voice  so 
tensely  strained  that  it  caused  the  listener  to  look  at  her 
with  surprise.  "I  can  now  pay  for  doctors,  dresses, 
everything.  D'ye  hear  that,  Meg  Morraws?"  The  last 
sentence  sounded  like  a  threat. 

The  child  was  doubled  up  on  Meg's  bed,  and  perspiring 
freely.  The  old  woman  had  put  on  a  fire  that  was  now 
blazing  merrily. 

"I  had  twa  stanes  of  coal,  and  I  put  them  all  on  be- 
cause of  the  kid,"  said  the  woman.  "Have  ye  a  penny 
and  I'll  get  some  oil.  There's  not  a  drop  in  the  house 
and  I'm  clean  broke." 

Norah  handed  the  woman  a  sovereign  and  told  her  to 
keep  it.  Meg  ejaculated  a  grunt  of  surprise,  made  a  re- 
mark about  the  shops  being  closed,  promptly  discovered 
that  she  really  had  some  oil,  and  put  the  coin  in  her 
pocket. 

The  night  wore  on;  the  child,  breathing  heavily  and 
coughing,  lay  in  Meg's  bed,  one  little  hand  showing  over 
the  blue  lettered  sentence  on  the  blanket.  The  light 
burned  fretfully,  the  old  woman  remarked  that  the  oil 
was  mixed  with  water  and  that  she  had  got  poor  value 
for  her  money.  Norah  talked  of  removing  the  child  into 
the  other  room;  Meg  said  it  would  be  madness,  and 


288  The  Rat-Pit 

scraping  up  more  coal,  heaped  it  on  the  fire.  In  the 
morning  the  old  woman  intended  to  get  very  drunk  in 
the  pub  outside. 

A  clatter  was  heard  on  the  stairs ;  then  the  sound  of  a 
falling  body  throbbed  through  the  building.  Meg  went 
out  and  found  a  man — the  one-armed  soldier — asleep  on 
the  landing.  She  bent  down,  fumbled  with  the  man's 
coat,  discovered  a  bottle  of  whisky,  drank  and  returned 
the  bottle  to  the  sleeper's  pocket.  She  entered  the  room 
again,  smacking  her  lips,  threw  herself  down  by  the  fire 
and  started  to  weep.  In  a  little  while  she  fell  asleep. 

She  woke  instinctively  at  eight  o'clock,  the  hour  when 
the  taverns  were  opening,  and  rising  to  her  feet,  she 
rubbed  her  eyes  vigorously  with  her  fingers.  She  found 
Norah  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  one  hand  pressed 
tightly  against  her  knee,  one  resting  lightly  on  the  head 
of  the  child. 

"Are  the  pubs  open  yet?"  asked  Meg,  then  in  a  lower 
voice :  "I  mean,  is  the  child  better,  the  dear  little  thing?" 

"He's  dead,"  said  Norah  quietly.  "He  died  over  an 
hour  ago." 

"An  hour  ago!"  exclaimed  the  woman.  "And  why 
didn't  ye  waken  me?  .  .  .  I'm  a  bad  yin,  Norah  Ryan, 
a  gey  bad  yin!"  Saying  these  words  the  woman  ap- 
proached the  bed  and  for  a  moment  stared  fixedly  at  the 
child.  Then  she  paced  backwards  across  the  room,  sob- 
bing loudly  and  muttering  meaningless  words  under  her 
breath.  Through  the  dirty  window  she  could  see  the 
beer-shop  opposite;  the  doors  were  open  and  a  young 
man  in  shirt-sleeves  was  taking  off  the  shutters. 

"My  heart  is  wae  for  ye,  Norah,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"Death  is  a  hard  thing  to  bear.  But  I  suppose  it'll  come 
to  all  of  us  yin  day.  Oh !  oh !  and  all  of  us  maun  gang 
some  day.  .  .  .  I'm  goin'  oot  the  noo,"  she  suddenly  ex- 
claimed, stopping  in  her  walk  and  looking  very  serious, 


Despair  289 

as  if  she  had  remembered  something  very  important. 
"I'll  be  back  again  in  a  meenit  or  twa." 

Meg  tied  her  shawl  over  her  head  and  without  wash- 
ing her  face  went  out  and  became  speedily  drunk.  The 
young  man  with  the  white  shirt,  who  took  down  the 
shutters,  made  some  sarcastic  remarks  about  Meg's  dirty 
face,  and  Meg,  being  short-tempered,  lifted  an  empty  bot- 
tle and  flung  it  in  the  man's  face,  wounding  him  terribly. 
A  policeman  was  called  in  and  the  woman  was  hurried 
off  to  the  police-station. 

Noon  saw  Norah  Ryan  still  sitting  on  the  bedside,  her 
brother's  gold  jingling  in  her  pocket  whenever  she  moved, 
and  her  dead  child  lying  cold  and  silent  beside  her. 


ii 


A  MONTH  of  black  sorrow  passed  by.  There  was  a 
great  void  in  Norah's  heart,  a  void  which  could 
never  be  filled  up.  Every  morning  she  rose  from  bed, 
knowing  that  the  day  would  have  no  joy,  no  consolation 
for  her.  Life  was  almost  unendurable ;  never  was  despair 
so  overpowering,  so  terrible.  Nothing  but  the  all-encom- 
passing loneliness  of  the  future  existed  for  her  now — 
that  terrible  future  from  which  she  recoiled  as  a  timid 
animal  recoils  from  the  brink  of  a  precipice. 

She  had  suffered  so  much,  was  healed  a  little ;  now  the 
healing  salve  of  motherhood  was  wrenched  from  her  by 
the  hand  of  death.  Nothing  now  remained  to  the  girl  but 
regrets,  terrible,  torturing,  lingering  regrets  that  tore  at 
her  mind  like  birds  of  prey. 

"No  matter  what  I  do  now,  nobody  will  think  me  no 
worse  than  I  am,"  she  cried,  but  the  thought  left  her  un- 
moved ;  even  life  did  not  interest  her  enough  to  have  any 
desire  to  end  it.  Shame  had  once  covered  her,  enveloped 


290  The  Rat-Pit 

her  as  in  a  garment,  but  now  shame  was  gone ;  she  had 
thrust  it  away  and  even  the  blind  trust  in  some  unshapen 
chance  which  had  once  been  hers  was  now  hers  no  longer. 

She  worked  no  more ;  only  once  was  she  roused  to  ac- 
tion, and  that  was  when  she  looked  at  the  gold  coins  in 
her  pocket.  This  was  Fergus'  money,  and  she  had  often 
wondered  where  he  had  gone  to  on  that  night  of  nights. 
She  went  to  a  neighbouring  post-office  and  sent  ten 
pounds  home  to  her  mother.  Not  a  line,  not  a  word 
went  with  the  money  order. 

"I'm  dead,  dead  to  everyone,"  she  said.  "To  me  own 
mother,  to  Fergus,  to  all  the  good  people  in  the  wide 
world." 


in 


SHE  was  coming  back  from  the  post-office  and  the  lone- 
liness weighed  heavily  upon  her.  She  thought  of 
the  letter  on  its  way  to  her  own  country.  Soon  the  little 
slip  of  paper  would  be  in  the  old  home,  would  be  pressed 
by  her  mother's  fingers;  and  she,  poor  little  suffering 
Norah,  would  still  be  hemmed  up  in  her  narrow  room, 
for  all  the  world  just  like  a  bird  prisoned  in  its  cage; 
hearing  nothing  but  the  vacant  laughter  and  sound  of 
scurry  and  scuffle  on  the  stairs  and  streets,  and  seeing 
nothing  but  the  filthy  lanes,  the  smoky  sky,  and  the 
misery  and  squalor  of  the  fetid  Cowcaddens. 

She  went  into  a  public-house  and  purchased  a  bottle 
of  whisky.  That  night  she  got  drunk  and  even  happy ; 
but  the  happiness  was  one  of  forgetfulness.  She  awoke 
from  a  heavy  sleep  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  lit  her 
lamp.  Then  her  eyes  fell  on  the  picture  of  the  Virgin, 
the  holy  water  stoup,  the  little  black  crucifix  and  the 
white  Christ  with  extended  arms  and  bleeding  breast 
nailed  upon  it. 


Despair  291 

"I've  prayed  to  ye  for  years,"  she  cried,  clutching  the 
picture  of  the  Virgin  in  her  hand.  "And  look  at  me  to- 
night! It's  little  good  me  prayers  has  done  me;  me  a 
drunkard  and  everything  that's  worse  nor  another !"  So 
speaking,  she  flung  the  picture  into  the  dead  fire.  A 
spiral  of  ashes  rose  slowly,  fluttered  round  and  settled  on 
the  floor.  She  brought  down  the  holy  water  stoup,  and 
resisting  with  a  shudder  the  desire,  bred  of  long  custom, 
to  cross  herself,  emptied  the  contents  into  the  fireplace. 
Then  she  looked  at  the  confidant  of  her  innumerable 
vague  longings — the  crucifix. 

"Sorrow!"  she  laughed.  "Did  ye  ever  know  what  a 
mother's  sorrow  for  her  dead  child  was  ?  That's  the  sor- 
row, the  sorrow  that  would  make  me  commit  the  sins,  the 
most  awful  in  the  whole  world.  But  what  am  I  saying? 
It's  me  that  doesn't  know  all  the  meanin'  of  many  things. 
If  the  people  at  home,  the  master  at  school,  the  priest, 
any  one  at  all  had  learned  me  all  the  things  that  every 
girl  should  know  I  wouldn't  be  here  now  like  something 
lost  on  a  moor  on  a  black  night." 

She  went  back  to  her  bed,  leaving  the  light  burning  and 
the  crucifix  standing  on  the  little  shelf.  She  wondered 
why  she  had  not  thrown  it  into  the  fire  as  she  intended 
to  do,  and  wondering  thus  she  fell  into  a  deep  and 
drunken  slumber. 


IV 


SHE  awoke  early,  dressed,  and  went  down  the  stairs 
into  the  street.  It  was  Sunday,  solitary  and  silent, 
with  a  slight  shower  of  snow  falling.  Glasgow  looked 
drearier  than  usual  with  its  grimy  houses  and  the  wet 
roofs,  its  dirty,  miry  streets  where  the  snow  dissolved 
as  soon  as  it  fell.  Norah's  spirits  were  in  sympathy  with 


292  The  Rat-Pit 

the  sombre  surroundings,  and  she  felt  glad  that  the 
oppressive  noise  of  the  week-days  had  abated. 

Heedless  of  direction,  she  walked  along  and  was  pass- 
ing a  Catholic  chapel  when  the  worshippers  who  had  been 
to  early  Mass  showered  upon  her.  It  was  too  late  to 
turn  back ;  she  walked  hurriedly  through  the  crowd,  feel- 
ing that  every  eye  was  turned  in  her  direction. 

"Potato-diggers,"  someone  said.  "They're  goin'  back 
to  Ireland  to-morrow." 

Norah  looked  at  the  speaker,  then  to  the  crowd  at 
which  he  pointed.  It  was  a  party  of  Irish  workers,  now 
numbering  about  thirty  in  all,  and  a  few  stragglers  were 
still  coming  out  to  swell  the  ranks.  A  young  girl  with 
very  clear  skin  and  beautiful  eyes  was  putting  her  rosary, 
one  with  a  shiny  cross  at  the  end  of  it,  into  her  pocket. 
An  old  woman  with  a  black  shawl  over  her  head  was 
brushing  the  snow  from  her  hair.  Her  face  was  brown 
and  very  wrinkled;  the  few  hairs  that  fell  over  her 
brow  were  almost  as  white  as  the  snow  that  covered  her 
shawl. 

A  young  priest  in  cassock  and  gown  came  out,  smiling 
broadly.  "It's  early  in  the  year  for  snow,"  he  said,  look- 
ing at  the  potato-diggers. 

"One  may  expect  anything  at  this  season  of  the  year, 
yer  reverence,"  said  the  old  woman  with  the  white  hair. 
The  young  girl  looked  closely  at  the  priest,  hanging  on 
every  word  that  he  uttered. 

"Are  you  all  goin'  across  home,  this  winter?"  asked 
the  priest. 

"All  of  us,"  said  a  man. 

"You  like  the  old  country  ?"  enquired  the  priest. 

"Well  may  we,"  answered  the  old  woman.  "It's  our 
own  country." 

Norah  was  moving  away;  the  last  words  came  to  her 
like  an  echo. 


Despair  293 

"Our  own  country !"  Norah  repeated  half  aloud,  every 
word  coming  slowly  through  her  lips.  "But  I  have  no 
country  at  all,  no  country!  He's  a  nice,  kind  priest,  in- 
deed he  is.  Speakin'  to  them  just  as  if  they  were  his  own 
people!  I  would  like  to  go  and  confess  me  sins  to  that 
priest !" 

The  snow  fell  faster,  and  presently  Norah  felt  cold. 
A  fit  of  coughing  seized  her  and  the  sharp  pain  which 
seldom  went  away  from  her  left  shoulder-blade  began  to 
trouble  her  acutely.  She  turned  and  went  back  to  her 
room. 

All  that  evening  two  pictures  kept  rising  in  her  mind. 
One  was  of  the  priest  with  the  smiling  face  talking  to  the 
potato-diggers;  the  other  was  the  picture  of  the  young 
girl  with  the  clear  skin  and  the  beautiful  eyes  putting  the 
rosary,  with  the  shiny  cross  at  the  end  of  it,  into  her 
pocket. 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

CONFESSION 


A  WEEK  passed;  the  hour  was  twelve  o'clock  on  a 
Saturday  night.  The  clocks  were  striking  mid- 
night but  the  streets  were  still  crowded  with  peo- 
ple. A  boat  could  be  heard  hooting  on  the  Broomielaw ; 
a  train  whistling  at  Enoch  Street  station.  A  woman 
came  along  a  narrow  lane  on  the  Cowcaddens,  shoulder- 
ing her  way  amongst  the  people,  and  abusing  in  no  polite 
terms  those  who  obstructed  her  way.  She  wore  a  shawl 
almost  torn  to  shreds  and  she  staggered  a  little  as  she 
walked.  Her  features  were  far  from  prepossessing;  dry 
hacks  dented  her  cheeks  and  brow ;  her  lips  were  rough 
and  almost  bloodless '  and  wisps  of  draggled  hair  hung 
over  her  face.  As  she  walked  along  she  broke  into 
snatches  of  song  from  time  to  time. 

Under  the  gaslight  staring  eyes  set  in  sickly  or  swarthy 
faces  glared  at  her;  rude  remarks  and  meaningless  jokes 
were  made;  sounds  of  laughter  rose,  echoed  and  died 
away.  Suddenly  a  noise,  loud  as  a  rising  gale,  swept 
through  the  lane;  a  man  hurried  past  and  rushed  along 
the  streets,  a  young  girl  followed.  The  crowd,  as  if 
actuated  by  one  common  impulse,  scurried  past  the 
woman,  yelling  and  shrieking.  A  drunken  man  stared 
stupidly  after  the  mob,  then  fell  like  a  wet  sack  to  the 
pavement;  a  labourer  struck  against  the  prostrate  body; 

294 


Confession  295 

fell,  and  rose  cursing.  A  whistle  was  blown.  "The 
slops !  the  slops !"  a  ragged  youth  shouted,  and  a  hundred 
voices  took  up  the  cry.  "Run!  Run!"  others  roared. 
...  A  little  toddling  child  stood  on  the  pavement  cry- 
ing, one  finger  in  its  mouth  and  its  big  curious  eyes  fixed 
on  the  rabble. 

"What  are  ye  greetin'  for?"  asked  the  woman  in  the 
ragged  shawl.  "Have  ye  lost  yerself  ?" 

"I  want  me  mither !"  wailed  the  child. 

"Ye're  here,  are  ye?"  cried  a  stout,  brazen-faced 
woman,  ambling  up  and  seizing  the  infant,  who  was  try- 
ing to  chew  a  penny  which  the  stranger  had  just  given 
it.  "It's  a  lass  that's  fainted  on  the  pavement,"  explained 
the  mother,  pointing  to  the  crowd.  "I  think  the  corner 
boys,  rascals  that  they  are,  were  playin'  tricks  on  her." 

"That's  always  the  way  with  people,"  said  the  strange 
woman.  "See  and  don't  let  the  child  swallow  the  baw- 
bee." 

With  these  words  she  hurried  into  the  press  of  people, 
the  corners  of  her  shawl  fluttering  round  her.  A  group 
of  ragged  men  and  women  stood  on  the  pavement,  chat- 
tering noisily.  Against  the  wall  a  frail  form  was  propped 
up  between  two  young  girls,  one  of  whom  had  a  fright- 
ened look  on  her  face ;  the  other  was  smiling  and  chew- 
ing an  orange.  A  man,  lighting  a  pipe  and  sheltering 
the  match  under  the  palm  of  his  hand,  made  some  sug- 
gestion as  to  what  should  be  done,  but  nobody  paid  any 
heed. 

The  woman  with  the  torn  shawl  elbowed  her  way 
through  the  crowd,  and  came  to  a  standstill  when  she 
caught  sight  of  the  girl  propped  up  on  the  pavement. 

"It's  Norah  Ryan !"  she  exclaimed. 

"That's  the  name,"  a  female  in  the  crowd  said.  "She 
lives  up  42.  She's  a  woman  of  the  kind  that  .  .  .  But 
ye  ken  what  I  mean." 


296  The  Rat-Pit 

"And  ye'd  let  her  die  here,  wi'out  givin'  a  hand  to  help 
her!"  cried  the  new-comer,  turning  fiercely  on  the 
speaker.  "Help  me  to  take  the  lass  to  her  house." 

The  two  girls  assisted  by  two  men  helped  the  woman 
to  carry  Norah  upstairs.  The  crowd  followed,  pressing 
in  and  shoving  against  those  in  front.  Someone  made 
a  rude  remark  and  the  laughter  which  greeted  it  floated 
far  up  even  to  the  topmost  landing,  where  the  paralysed 
beggar,  somewhat  the  worse  for  liquor,  was  singing  one 
of  his  cheery  songs. 

ii 

THE  accident  to  Norah  happened  in  this  way. 
After  seeing  the  Irish  diggers  come  out  of  the 
chapel,  she  felt  a  sudden  desire  to  go  and  confess  her 
sins  to  the  young  priest.  This  desire  she  did  not  strive 
to  explain  or  analyse;  she  only  knew  that  she  would  be 
happy  in  some  measure  if  she  went  to  the  chapel  again. 

The  memory  of  her  sins  began  to  trouble  her.  How 
many  they  had  been !  she  thought.  From  that  night  when 
a  ring  sparkled  in  the  darkness  outside  Morrison's  farm- 
house up  till  now,  when  she  was  a  common  woman  of 
the  streets,  what  a  life  she  had  led!  With  her  mind 
aspiring  towards  heaven  she  became  conscious  of  the 
mire  in  which  her  feet  were  set;  the  religion  of  child- 
hood was  now  making  itself  heard  in  the  heart  of  the 
woman.  Nature  had  given  Norah  a  power  peculiarly  her 
own  that  enabled  her  to  endure  suffering  and  in  turn 
counselled  resignation;  but  that  power  was  now  gone. 
She  required  something  to  lean  against,  and  her  heart 
turned  to  the  faith  of  which  the  little  black  crucifix  on 
the  mantelpiece  was  the  emblem.  On  the  Saturday  even- 
ing following  her  meeting  with  the  potato-diggers  she 
went  to  confession. 


Confession  297 

She  entered  the  chapel,  her  shawl  drawn  tightly  over 
her  head  and  almost  concealing  her  face,  which  looked 
fair,  white  and  childlike,  seen  through  the  half-light  of 
the  large  building.  Although  she  tried  to  walk  softly  her 
boots  made  a  loud  clatter  on  the  floor  and  the  echo  caught 
the  sound  and  carried  it  far  down  through  nave  and 
chancel.  A  few  candles,  little  white  ghosts  with  halos 
of  feeble  flame  around  their  heads,  threw  a  dim  light  on 
the  golden  ornaments  of  the  altar  and  the  figure  of  the 
Christ  standing  out  in  bold  relief  against  the  darkness 
over  the  sacristy  door.  The  sanctuary  lamp,  hanging 
from  the  roof  and  swaying  backwards  and  forwards, 
showed  like  a  big  red  eye. 

Outside  the  confessional  a  number  of  men  and  women 
were  seated  on  long  forms;  one  or  two  were  kneeling, 
their  rosaries  clicking  as  the  beads  ran  through  their  fin- 
gers. Those  seated,  with  eyes  sparkling  brightly  when- 
ever they  turned  their  heads,  looked  like  white-faced 
spirits.  An  old  man  was  shuffling  uneasily,  his  nailed 
boots  rasping  on  the  floor  from  time  to  time;  a  woman 
having  been  seized  with  the  hiccough  rose  and  went  out, 
and  the  row  on  the  seat  gathered  closer,  each  no  doubt 
pleased  at  the  prospect  of  getting  in  advance  of  at  least 
one  other  sinner.  Norah  sat  down  at  the  end  of  the  row, 
a  strange  fluttering  in  her  heart,  and  her  fingers  opening 
and  closing  nervously.  She  felt  that  the  penitents  knew 
her,  that  they  would  arise  suddenly  and  accuse  her  of 
her  sins.  A  man  opposite  looked  fixedly  at  her  and  she 
hung  her  head.  The  low  mumbling  voice  of  the  priest 
saying  the  words  of  absolution  over  a  sinner  could  be 
heard  coming  from  the  confessional.  But  had  there  ever 
been  a  sinner  as  bad  as  she  was?  Norah  asked  hersejf. 
For  her  sins  it  was  so  hard  to  ask  forgiveness. 

"Never,  never  will  I  get  absolution,"  she  said  under 
her  breath. 


298  The  Rat-Pit 

Then  she  began  to  wonder  if  the  young,  pleasant-faced 
priest  who  talked  to  the  potato-diggers  was  in  the  con- 
fessional. He  would  not  be  hard  on  her;  he  looked  so 
kind  and  gentle ! 

"I'm  afeared,  very  afeared,"  she  whispered  to  herself. 
"I'll  not  go  in  this  time;  I'll  go  away  and  come  back 
again." 

But  even  as  she  spoke  the  woman  with  the  hiccough 
came  back  and  took  up  her  position  on  the  end  of  the 
seat.  Norah  found  that  she  could  not  get  away  now  with- 
out disturbing  the  woman.  She  bowed  her  head  and  be- 
gan to  pray. 

ill 

SHE  could  not  see  the  priest  in  the  confessional,  but 
could  hear  him  breathing  in  short,  laboured  pants 
like  a  very  fat  old  woman.  It  couldn't  be  the  young  man, 
Norah  thought,  as  she  went  down  on  her  knees  and  be- 
gan the  "Confiteor."  The  priest  hurried  over  the  words 
in  a  weary  voice;  Norah  repeated  them  after  him,  stop- 
ping now  and  again  to  draw  her  breath.  A  sensation, 
almost  akin  to  that  which  precedes  drowning,  gripped 
her  throat. 

"What  sins  have  ye  committed?"  asked  the  priest. 
"Tell  me  the  greatest  first." 

"I  am  a  woman  of  the  streets."  She  had  now  taken 
the  plunge  and  felt  calmer  as  she  waited  to  be  asked  a 
question. 

"God's  merciful,"  said  the  priest,  and  his  voice  was 
tinged  with  interest.  "Go  on." 

"I  am  the  mother  of  a  child  that  died  but  was  never 
christened,"  said  Norah.  "It  was  all  through  my  own 
fault." 

"You  haven't  been  married?" 


Confession  299 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  shudder.  "I  often  thought 
of  takin'  my  own  life." 

"Yes." 

"I  took  to  drink  and  then  threw  the  picture  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin  and  a  stoup  of  holy  water  into  the  fire." 

She  paused. 

"Ye've  given  up  the  life  of  the  streets?"  enquired  the 
priest  in  a  voice  teeming  with  curiosity. 

"I  have,"  answered  Norah. 

"Did  ye  like  it?" 

"No."    The  answer  was  the  echo  of  a  whisper  almost. 

"God's  merciful,"  said  the  priest.  His  tones  seemed 
hoarse  with  the  passion  of  a  sensuous  youth.  "And  yer 
other  sins  ?"  he  asked. 


IV 


SHE  prayed  for  a  long  time  before  the  altar,  mingling 
tears  with  her  prayers.  Footfalls  came  and  went, 
but  nobody  paid  any  heed  to  the  kneeling  woman.  Of 
this  she  was  glad.  Norah  wanted  to  do  good,  as  other 
people  commit  evil  actions,  secretly.  The  trembling 
shadows  thrown  by  the  sanctuary  lamp  played  round  the 
Christ  who,  with  outstretched  hand,  stood  over  the 
sacristy  door.  How  great  and  serious  the  Saviour  looked ! 
The  girl  imagined  that  He  was  thinking  of  some  great 
secret  belonging  to  humanity  but  hidden  so  deeply  that 
it  was  unknown  to  man. 

At  ten  o'clock  she  returned  to  her  room  and  sat  there 
for  a  long  while.  A  great  peace  had  stolen  into  her  soul, 
a  peace  that  was  mingled  with  no  regrets.  She  had  for- 
gotten the  pain  in  her  shoulder,  forgotten  everything  but 
the  figure  of  the  Christ  over  the  sacristy  door,  and  the 
hand  that  was  held  out  above  her  head  as  if  in  blessing. 

It  was  near  midnight  when  she  went  out  to  buy  pro- 


300  The  Rat-Pit 

visions  for  the  next  day.  The  hooligans  at  the  street  cor- 
ner were  very  drunk  and  very  noisy.  There  were  no 
policemen  about ;  a  fight  some  distance  off  was  engaging 
their  attention. 

"Ah!  here's  one  that'll  hae  some  siller,  the  kip-shop 
wench!"  shouted  one  of  the  roughs,  a  big,  round-shoul- 
dered rascal,  on  seeing  Norah.  "Fork  out,  my  pretty, 
and  gie  us  some  tin." 

"Fork  out !"  roared  the  rest  of  the  gang  in  chorus. 

Norah  stood  undecided,  one  foot  in  the  gutter,  one  on 
the  pavement.  The  grocer's  shop  was  a  dozen  paces 
away. 

"The  cops  will  be  here  in  a  jiffy,"  someone  shouted  in 
a  tense  whisper.  "Search  her!" 

Then  followed  a  wild  rush  and  Norah  was  conscious 
of  many  things  in  the  next  few  minutes.  The  air  seemed 
suddenly  charged  with  the  fumes  of  alcohol ;  hands  seized 
her,  rough  fingers  fumbled  at  her  blouse,  opened  it  and 
rested  on  her  breasts ;  a  whistle  was  blown,  she  fell  to  the 
pavement,  got  dragged  for  a  few  paces  on  the  wet  street 
and  was  pulled  to  her  feet  again.  Someone  laid  hands  on 
her  purse  and  took  it  out ;  a  scramble  ensued,  then  a  fight 
for  the  money.  Norah  was  thrown  down  again  and 
trampled  upon.  The  hooligans  tore  the  purse  and  several 
coins  fell  to  the  ground.  A  second  whistle  was  blown, 
and  the  crowd  disappeared,  leaving  Norah  lying  in  a  dead 
faint  on  the  pavement. 


WHEN  she  recovered  consciousness  she  was  in  her 
own  room,  lying  on  the  bed.     The  lamp  was  lit 
and  she  could  hear  the  coal  crackling  in  the  fire.     She 
raised  herself  up  in  bed  and  looked  enquiringly  around. 


Confession  301 

A  stranger,  a  woman  who  was  bending  over  the  fire,  hur- 
ried forward. 

"And  how  are  ye,  Norah  Ryan?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"It's  Ellen  that's  in  it,"  exclaimed  Norah,  sinking  back 
on  the  pillow,  but  more  from  surprise  than  from  weari- 
ness. "Where  have  ye  come  from,  Ellen?" 

"I  was  in  the  street,"  explained  the  woman,  who  was 
indeed  Ellen — Gourock  Ellen.  "I  saw  ye  lyin'  on  the 
pavement  and  I  kent  ye  at  once.  A  woman  in  the  crowd 
knew  where  ye  lived.  ...  Ye  hae  nae  muckle  changed, 
Norah  Ryan.  Ye're  just  the  same  as  ye  was  when  I  saw 
ye  last  in  Jim  Scanlon's  squad.  And  d'ye  mind  how  me 
and  ye  was  in  the  one  bed  ?" 

"Ellen,  I'm  glad  that  ye  came,"  said  Norah  in  a  low 
voice.  "I  used  to  be  often  thinkin'  of  ye,  Ellen." 

"Thinkin'  of  me,  lass?"  exclaimed  Ellen,  bending  over 
the  bed,  but  keeping  her  lips  as  far  away  as  possible  from 
Norah  lest  the  young  woman  should  detect  the  smell  of 
whisky  off  her  breath.  "Why  were  ye  thinkin'  about  me  ? 
Someone  worthier  should  be  in  your  thoughts.  .  .  .  The 
rascals  in  the  streets!  Ah,  the  muckle  scamps!  They 
should  be  run  into  the  nick  and  never  let  out  again.  111- 
treatin'  a  little  lassie  like  you !" 

Norah  looked  up  at  the  woman.  Ellen's  pock-marked 
face  was  still  full  of  the  same  unfailing  good  nature 
which  belonged  to  her  years  before  when  she  worked  in 
Micky's  Jim's  squad. 

"Where  is  Annie?" 

"I  dinna  ken.  She  went  off  with  a  man  and  I  haven't 
seen  her  never  since."  Ellen  smiled,  but  so  slightly  that 
the  smile  did  not  change  the  expression  of  her  eyes. 

"Ye  don't  tell  me !  And  ye've  never  been  back  at  the 
squad  again?" 

"Never  back.  I  was  times  workin'  at  the  rag-pickin' 
and  times  gatherin'  coal  from  the  free  coup." 


302  The  Rat-Pit 

"That's  what  Mary  Martin  done,"  Norah  exclaimed. 
"She  was  a  woman  known  to  me." 

"And  ye  kent  old  Mary!"  said  Ellen.  "Me  and  her 
have  worked  together  for  many's  a  day,  makin'  a  shillin' 
a  day  each  at  the  job." 

The  woman  paused. 

"Are  ye  feelin'  a  wee  better,  Norah?"  she  asked  pres- 
ently. 

"I'm  fine,  Ellen,"  was  the  answer.  "I  could  get  up 
and  run  about  and  I'm  not  in  the  least  sleepy.  What 
were  the  corner  boys  wantin'  to  do  ?" 

"They  wanted  siller " 

"My  purse,  Ellen!  Have  they  taken  it  from  me?" 
Norah  searched  nervously  in  the  pockets  of  her  dress. 

"I'm  afeared  that  they  have." 

"Mother  of  God !  I  haven't  one  penny  now,  Ellen,  not 
one  brown  penny!"  Norah  exclaimed.  "It'll  be  the 
streets  for  me  again." 

"We'll  get  along  somehow,  if  we  work  together,"  said 
Ellen. 

"We'll  work  together;  that's  the  way,"  Norah  whis- 
pered after  a  moment's  consideration. 

"Twa  is  always  better  than  yin,"  Ellen  replied. 

Norah  looked  closely  at  the  woman  as  if  puzzling  out 
something;  then  her  eyes  closed  gently  and  quietly  and 
she  fell  asleep.  She  awoke  several  times  during  the  night, 
mumbled  incoherent  words,  then  sank  into  a  deep  slum- 
ber again.  And  all  night  Gourock  Ellen  watched  over 
Norah  Ryan.  Morning  found  her  still  sitting  beside  the 
bed,  weary-eyed  but  patient,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  face 
of  the  sleeping  girl. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

ST.  JOHN  VIII,  I-II 


IN  the  morning  Norah  was  in  a  raging  fever.  She 
spoke  in  her  delirium  of  many  things,  prattling  like 
a  child  about  the  sea  and  curraghs  of  Presses  going 
out  beyond  Trienna  Bar  in  the  grey  dusk  of  the  harvest 
evening.  She  held  conversation  with  people  visible  to 
none  but  herself :  with  Fergus,  with  Dermod  Flynn,  with 
her  mother,  with  the  dead  child.  The  girl's  whole  history 
for  the  last  three  years  was  thus  disclosed  to  Gourock 
Ellen.  Days  came  and  went ;  the  patient  became  no  bet- 
ter. A  doctor  was  called  in;  he  applied  his  stethoscope 
to  Norah's  chest  and  shook  his  head  gravely. 

"Well  ?"  asked  Ellen  eagerly. 

"I'll  come  again  to-morrow,"  said  the  doctor,  and  his 
tones  implied  that  this  was  a  very  important  announce- 
ment. "Meanwhile "  and  he  gave  Ellen  instructions 

as  to  how  she  should  treat  the  patient. 

Money  was  scarce ;  Norah  had  lost  every  penny  of  hers 
on  the  night  that  the  hooligans  attacked  her.  The  other 
woman  had  only  twenty-five  shillings  in  her  possession, 
and  this  went  very  quickly.  Then  Ellen  called  on  the 
Jew,  Isaac  Levison,  who  had  the  pawnbroking  business 
on  the  stair. 

"D'ye  ken  the  lass  Norah  Ryan  ?"  Ellen  enquired  of  the 
man,  an  undersized,  genial-looking  fellow  with  sharp 
eyes  and  a  dark  moustache. 

303 


304  The  Rat-Pit 

"I  know  her,"  said  the  Jew.  He  knew  Ellen  by  sight 
and  reputation ;  the  kind  way  in  which  she  was  treating 
the  girl  was  common  talk  on  the  stairs. 

"I  want  the  len'  o'  three  pounds,"  said  Ellen.  "I  can 
only  gie  my  promise  to  pay  it  back  when  I  get  work.  Is 
that  enough  of  a  security?" 

"I'll  take  your  word,"  said  the  Jew,  who  was  to  some 
extent  a  judge  of  character,  and  who  was  kindly  dis- 
posed towards  the  woman,  having  heard  much  that  was 
good  about  her.  "Five  per  cent,"  he  added.  "That's 
extra  good  terms." 

When  the  doctor  came  the  next  day  Ellen  spoke  to  him. 

"Cash  is  gey  scarce  here,"  she  said,  "but  do  yer  best 
for  the  girl  and  I'll  meet  the  bill  some  day.  I'll  meet  it, 
doctor,  so  help  me  God !" 

The  doctor  smiled  slightly ;  such  protestations  were  not 
new  to  him.  Besides,  he  was  a  kindly  man. 

"I'll  do  my  best  for  her,"  he  said.  "And  as  to  pay- 
ment— well,  we'll  see." 

"Ye'll  get  paid,"  said  Ellen  fiercely.  "Ye  must  wait, 
but  it  doesn't  matter  what  happens,  ye'll  get  paid,  mind 
that!  Though  the  lass  is  no  blood  relation  of  mine,  I 
dinna  want  ye  to  work  for  charity.  And  I'll  pay  ye  yer 
siller;  aye,  if  I've  to  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  to  do 
it." 

The  doctor  looked  at  the  woman  and  knew  that  she 
was  speaking  from  the  depths  of  her  heart. 

ii 

ANOTHER  fortnight,  and  the  tang  of  spring  was  in 
the  air.    Ellen  had  procured  work  as  a  charwoman 
in  a  large  school,  and  being  a  good,  reliable  worker,  sev- 
eral   smaller    jobs    came    her    way.      Her    wages    now 
amounted  to  nine  shillings  a  week.    Norah  had  recovered 


St.  John  VIII,  i-n  305 

a  little ;  the  cough  was  not  as  hard  as  formerly ;  the  pain 
under  her  left  shoulder-blade  had  lost  its  sting,  but, 
though  hardly  noticeable,  it  was  always  there.  At  first 
Ellen  found  it  difficult  to  induce  Norah  to  stop  in  bed ;  the 
girl  wanted  to  get  about  and  do  some  work.  Only  when 
she  got  to  her  feet  did  Norah  become  fully  conscious  of 
the  weakness  in  her  legs  and  spine. 

As  she  lay  there  in  her  narrow  bed  she  could  discern 
through  the  cracked  window  the  sky,  always  sombre  grey 
and  covered  with  low,  sagging  clouds.  Now  and  again 
she  could  see  a  homing  crow  fly  past  on  lazy  wings  or 
perhaps  a  white  sea-gull  turning  sharply  far  up  in  the 
sky  with  a  glint  of  sunshine  resting  on  its  distended 
wings.  And  often  on  a  clear  night,  when  the  moonbeams 
filtered  through  the  ragged  blind,  Norah  would  dream 
of  Frosses,  and  the  sea,  the  old  home,  with  the  moon 
rising  over  the  hills  of  Glenmornan  and  lighting  up  the 
coast  of  Donegal. 

"I  have  been  a  great  trouble  to  ye,  Ellen,"  Norah  said 
one  evening,  turning  round  in  the  bed  and  looking  ear- 
nestly at  her  friend.  "I  seem  to  be  only  a  trouble  to 
everyone  that  I  meet,  and  now  to  yerself  most  of  all.  Ye 
have  been  the  great  friend  to  me,  Ellen." 

"Haud  yer  tongue,  ye  muckle  simple  hussy,"  said  El- 
len with  a  smile,  sorting  the  blankets  on  the  bed.  "Now 
gang  to  sleep  and  dinna  let  me  hear  ye  fash  any  longer. 
Are  ye  happy?" 

"I'm  very  happy,  Ellen,  waitin'  for  the  minit." 
" Wh^t  are  ye  haverin'  aboot,  silly  lassie  ?" 
"I  used  to  build  castles  on  Dooey  Strand,  that's  home 
in  Donegal,  when  I  was  wee,"  said  Norah.     "And  then 
when  they  were  big  and  high  the  tide  would  come  in  and 
sweep  them  away  in  one  little  minit.    Them  castles  were 
like  people's  lives.    Used  ye  to  make  castles  in  the  sand 
when  ye  were  wee,  Ellen  ?" 


306  The  Rat-Pit 

"Not  in  the  sand,  but  in  the  air,  Norah,"  said  Ellen 
reminiscently.  "I  began  the  bad  life  gey  early.  My 
mither — she  wasna  what  some  people  might  cry  vera 
guid;  but  she  was  my  mither,  Norah.  Maybe  I  wasna 
wanted  when  I  came,  but  she  had  the  pain  o'  bringin'  me 
forth.  Well,  I  kent  most  things  before  I  was  sixteen 
years  auld.  Sixteen  is  an  age  when  a  girl  dinna  weigh 
her  actions,  and  sixteen  likes  pretty  dresses,  and  sixteen 
disna  like  to  starve.  Though  we  were  poor  and  often 
hungry  I  kept  pure  for  a  long  while.  But  to  tell  the  truth 
I  didna  think  it  worth  it  in  the  end,  Norah." 

She  paused  for  a  moment  and  sorted  a  piece  of  cloth 
to  fit  on  the  dress  she  was  patching. 

"At  eighteen — that's  a  gey  guid  wheen  of  years  ago 
now — I  took  it  in  my  heid  that  I  wisna  goin'  to  sin  ony 
mair,"  Ellen  went  on.  "I  got  very  religious  and  bowed 
myself  in  the  dust  before  God.  'He'll  ne'er  forgie  me  my 
trespasses,'  I  said,  'for  I'm  a  poor  miserable  sinner.'  I 
got  a  Bible  then  and  read  in  it  mony  things  that  were  a 
consolation  and  an  upliftin'  to  me.  And  last  night  I 
bought  one  on  the  streets,  Norah.  A  man  with  a  barrow 
was  sellin'  them,  and  I  got  one  for  a  penny.  I  thought 
that  maybe  we  would  read  pieces  from  it  together." 

"The  Catholic  Church  doesn't  allow  us  to  read  the 
Bible,"  said  Norah. 

"I'll  only  read  one  little  bit,"  said  Ellen,  taking  a  dilapi- 
dated volume  from  her  pocket.  "Ye'll  listen  to  it,  Norah, 
won't  ye?" 

"Anything  that  pleases  yerself,  Ellen,  will  please  me." 


in 

ELLEN  laid  down  her  scissors,  trimmed  the  wick  of 
the  lamp,  resumed  her  seat,  wetted  her  thumb  and 
began  to  turn  over  the  pages  of  the  volume. 


St.  John  VIII,  i-n  307 

"Here  it  is,"  she  said,  and  commenced  to  read  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  'And  early  in  the  morning  He  came  again  into  the 
temple,  and  all  the  people  came  unto  Him;  and  He  sat 
down  and  taught  them.  And  the  Scribes  and  Pharisees' 
— they  were  a  kind  of  people  that  lived  in  them  days, 
Norah — 'brought  unto  Him  a  woman  taken  in' — who 
committed  a  bad  sin ;  'and  when  they  had  set  her  in  the 
midst,  they  say  unto  Him:  Master,  this  woman  was 
taken' — when  she  was  sinnin' — 'in  the  very  act.  Now 
Moses  in  the  Law  commanded  us  that  such  should  be 
stoned  :  but  what  sayest  Thou  ?  This  they  said,  temptin' 
Him,  that  they  might  have  to  accuse  Him.  But  Jesus 
stooped  down  and  with  His  finger  wrote  on  the  ground, 
as  though  He  heard  them  not.  So  when  they  continued 
asking  Him,  He  lifted  up  Himself  and  said  unto  them :  HE 

THAT  IS  WITHOUT  SIN  AMONGST  YOU  LET  HIM  FIRST  CAST  A 

STONE  AT  HER.  And  again  He  stooped  down  and  wrote 
on  the  ground.  And  they  which  heard  it,  being  con- 
victed by  their  own  conscience,  went  out  one  by  one, 
beginning  at  the  eldest,  even  unto  the  last,  and  Jesus 
was  left  alone  and  the  woman  standing  in  the  midst. 
When  Jesus  had  lifted  up  Himself  and  saw  none  but 
the  woman,  He  said  unto  her :  Woman,  where  are  those 
thine  accusers?  Hath  no  man  condemned  thee?  She 
said,  No  man,  Lord.  And  Jesus  said  unto  her :  Neither 
do  I  condemn  thee ;  go,  and  sin  no  more.' " 

Tears  showed  in  Ellen's  eyes  when  she  finished  read- 
ing; then  without  giving  Norah  time  to  speak,  she  went 
on  with  her  own  story. 

"I  gave  up  the  life  on  the  streets  for  twa  and  twa — for 
nearly  four  months,  Norah.  Then  my  mither  took  ill 
and  was  like  to  dee.  I  nursed  her  for  a  long  while,  then 
the  siller  gaed  awa'  and  hunger  came  in  its  place.  I  had 
never  learnt  ony  trade;  there  was  only  one  thing  to  be 


308  The  Rat-Pit 

done,  Norah.  I  went  oot  tae  the  streets  again,  oot  to  sin 
knowingly,  and  what  was  before  an  ignorant  lassie's  mis- 
take was  then  and  after  a  fault,  black  in  the  eyes  of 
heaven." 

Ellen  paused  and  looked  up  at  the  roof.  Perhaps  she 
was  again  seeing  herself  as  she  was  on  that  evening  long 
ago,  a  wistful  and  pretty  girl,  a  child  almost,  going  out 
into  the  streets  to  earn  the  money  that  would  buy  food 
and  clothing  for  her  ailing  mother. 

"I  came  back  the  next  morn,  greetin'  a  wee,  if  I  re- 
member right,  and  twa  pieces  of  gold  in  my  pocket. 
When  I  came  into  our  room  I  found  my  mither  lyin'  on 
her  chair  by  the  fire,  and  she  was  dead !" 

"Poor  Ellen,"  said  Norah  in  a  low  voice.  "Ye  had  a 
hard  time  of  it  from  the  beginnin'." 

"Hard's  not  the  word,"  cried  Ellen,  and  a  fierce  look 
came  into  her  eyes.  "It  was  damnable !" 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  when  the  two  women 
felt  rather  than  thought.  As  in  a  dream,  they  could  hear 
crowds  passing  like  tides  along  the  narrow  lane  outside. 

"Will  God  ever  forgive  us  for  our  sins  ?"  asked  Norah. 

"Ye  have  never  ceased  to  be  pure  in  the  sight  of  God, 
lass,"  said  Ellen ;  "and  if  baith  of  us  are  judged  accordin' 
to  our  sufferin's  we  needna  hae  muckle  fear.  That's  the 
way  I  look  at  things,  Norah !" 

And  Ellen,  taking  up  her  scissors,  restarted  her  work, 
a  smile  almost  angelic  in  its  sadness  playing  in  odd  little 
waves  over  her  face.  And  in  the  poor  woman's  soul, 
glowing  brighter  even  in  misfortune,  burned  that  divine 
and  primary  spark  which  evil  and  accident  could  never 
extinguish. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

LONGINGS 


TIME  wore  on  and  Norah  lived  for  the  most  part 
in  a  world  of  fancy,  spoke  to  imaginary  indi- 
viduals and  at  moments  addressed  Ellen  as 
Sheila  Carrol  or  as  Maire  a  Glan.  Sometimes  she  was 
gloomy  and  reserved,  made  folds  in  the  sheet,  murmured 
in  an  almost  inaudible  voice,  and  seemed  to  be  calculat- 
ing distances.  The  least  movement  of  the  left  arm 
pained  her  and  caused  her  to  groan  aloud.  Now  and 
again  her  eyes  were  dull,  heavy,  and  glassy;  at  other 
times  they  were  re-lit  and  sparkled  like  stars.  She  ate 
next  to  nothing;  wrinkles  formed  round  her  eyes,  her 
cheeks  were  sunken;  she  became  the  shadow,  the  ghost 
of  her  former  self. 

After  a  while  the  name  of  Dermod  Flynn  entered  into 
her  prattle ;  at  first  she  spoke  of  him,  eventually  she  spoke 
to  him  as  if  he  were  in  the  room.  When  her  mind  re- 
sumed its  normal  state  all  this  was  forgotten.  Once 
Ellen  spoke  to  her  of  Dermod  Flynn. 

"I  would  like  to  see  him  again,  just  once,"  Norah  said, 
then  added :  "I'm  a  heart-break  to  ye,  Ellen ;  to  every- 
body that  I  ever  met.  I'm  like  a  little  useless  wean,  use- 
less, of  no  use  at  all." 

Acting  on  Norah's  wishes  a  priest  was  called  in,  heard 
Norah's  confession  and  administered  the  sacraments. 

309 


3io  The  Rat-Pit 

This  made  the  girl  happy  for  many  days.  Ellen  disliked 
priests,  but  never  gave  hint  of  her  dislike  to  Norah. 

"Ye're  sic  a  funny  little  thing,"  she  exclaimed  more 
than  once.  "I  took  a  fancy  to  ye  when  I  saw  ye  for  the 
first  time  that  mornin'  on  Greenock  Quay  along  wi'  Der- 
mod  Flynn.  He  was  a  comely  laddie,  and  I  would  like 
to  see  him  comin'  here." 

"I  wonder  where'll  he  be  now  ?"  said  Norah. 

"I  wunner." 

II 

SPRING  was  over  the  town.  The  sun  shone  almost 
daily  through  the  window  and  rested  on  Norah's 
bed ;  the  birds  twittered  on  the  roof ;  their  songs,  even  in 
the  city  slums,  were  filling  the  air. 

Starvation  was  very  near  the  two  occupants  of  the 
room.  They  were  three  weeks  behind  with  the  rent,  the 
landlord  threatened  to  evict  them;  the  grocer  grumbled, 
the  coal  man  would  not  supply  coals.  Added  to  this, 
Ellen  had  lost  her  job  as  charwoman  in  the  school.  The 
head-mistress,  a  dear  old  pious  soul !  had  made  enquiries 
into  Ellen's  past  life,  and  the  result  of  the  investigations 
was  that  the  charwoman  was  told  to  leave  the  premises. 

Ellen  was  thinking  of  these  things  one  morning. 
Norah  was  tossing  restlessly  in  the  bed,  when  a  knock 
came  to  the  door. 

"Come  in!"  Ellen  cried. 

A  man  entered,  one  hand  deep  in  his  trousers'  pocket, 
a  worn  cap  set  awkwardly  on  his  shaggy  head.  He  was 
a  powerfully-built  individual,  broad-shouldered  and 
heavy-limbed.  He  had  not  shaved  for  weeks ;  his  beard 
stood  out  in  sharp  bristles  from  his  jaw. 

"Moleskin  Joe,  what  d'ye  want?"  Ellen  asked,  her 
voice  charged  with  resentment. 


Longings  311 

"Did  ye  know  Dermod  Flynn  ?"  asked  the  man,  gazing 
curiously  at  the  woman  tossing  in  the  bed. 

"I  kent  him." 

"I'm  lookin'  for  a  wench — for  an  old  sweetheart  of 
his,  so  to  speak,"  said  the  man. 

"It's  Dermod  Flynn  that  he's  speakin'  about!  D'ye 
know  Dermod  ?"  asked  Norah,  sitting  up  in  bed  and  gaz- 
ing intently  at  the  stranger.  Her  cheeks  flushed ;  all  her 
young  beauty  seemed  to  have  returned  suddenly  and  set- 
tled in  her  face. 

"It's  like  this,"  said  the  stranger,  shuffling  uneasily. 
"It's  like  this :  me  and  Dermod's  pals.  We  did  graft  to- 
gether on  many's  a  shift,  aye,  and  fought  together  too. 
And  he  can  use  his  fives !  Well,  Dermod  often  told  me 
about  an  old  flame  of  his,  called — her  name  was " 

"Norah  Ryan,"  said  Ellen. 

"That's  it,"  said  the  man,  looking  at  the  girl  in  the 
bed.  "Perhaps  you'll  be  her.  If  you  are,  you  buckle  on 
to  Dermod.  He's  one  that  any  girl  should  be  proud  of ; 
and  he  can  use  his  fives !  But  women  don't  understand 
these  things." 

"Don't  they?"  queried  Ellen. 

"Some  think  they  do,"  said  the  man.  "Well,  Dermod 
went  to  London  and  worked  on  a  newspaper  as  a  some- 
thin'.  Graft  of  that  kind  is  not  in  my  line,  and  the  job 
wasn't  in  Dermod's  line  neither.  He  came  back  here  to 
Glasgow,  and  he's  lookin'  for  his  old  flame.  I'm  just 
helpin'  him." 

"Well,  that's  the  lass  he's  lookin'  for,"  said  Ellen, 
pointing  to  the  girl  in  the  bed.  "Now  run  awa',  Joe,  and 
bring  Dermod." 

"By  all  that's  holy !  she's  a  takin'  wench,"  said  the  man, 
looking  first  at  the  girl,  then  at  Ellen,  then  back  to  the 
girl  in  the  bed  again.  "Well,  I'd  better  be  goin',"  he 
said. 


312  The  Rat-Pit 

"Ye'd  better,"  answered  Ellen. 

"Are  ye  well  off  here?"  asked  the  man,  who  was  ap- 
parently unperturbed  by  Ellen's  remark. 

"Gey  poorly,"  said  the  woman;  "we'll  soon  hae  a 
moonlight  flittin';  that's  when  we  have  anything  to  flit 
with." 

The  man  dived  his  hand  into  his  trousers'  pocket,  rat- 
tled some  money,  then  as  if  a  sudden  thought  struck  him 
he  went  towards  the  door. 

"Send  Dermod  at  once,  will  ye?"  asked  Norah. 

"I'll  do  that,"  said  the  man,  then  to  Ellen :  "I  want  to 
speak  to  you." 

She  accompanied  Moleskin  out  on  the  landing  and 
closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"Isn't  she  a  comely  wench !"  said  the  man. 

"I  know  that.    Is  that  all  ye  have  to  say  to  me  ?" 

"Why  is  she  in  bed  at  this  hour  of  the  day?" 

"She's  waitin'  for  the  meenit,"  said  Ellen  in  a  low 
whisper.  "She'll  maybe  no'  last  another  twenty-four 
hours." 

"And  she  looks  the  picture  of  health !"  said  the  man. 

Ellen  told  of  the  assault  on  Norah,  her  narrative  bris- 
tling with  short,  sharp,  declamatory  sentences.  When  she 
finished  the  man  pulled  some  money  from  his  pocket  and 
put  it  into  Ellen's  palm. 

"Dermod's  my  matey,"  he  explained  apologetically. 
"I'll  bring  the  youngster  here  and  we'll  be  back  in  a  jiffy. 
He's  lodgin'  near  the  wharf.  And  by  heaven !  we'll  cure 
the  girl.  She'll  be  better  in  next  to  no  time." 

Ellen  shook  her  head  sadly.  "Lungs  canna  be  put 
back  again  once  they're  gone,"  she  said.  "But  hurry  and 
bring  Dermod  Flynn  here." 

The  man  turned  and  clattered  downstairs. 


Longings  313 

in 

MOLESKIN  JOE  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,"  said 
Ellen,  coming  in  and  counting  the  money  as  she 
made  her  way  towards  the  bed.  "Thirty  bob — two — two 
fifteen — three,  three  punds  nine  and  sixpence !"  she  cried. 
"And  Dermod  will  be  here  in  a  meenit.  .  .  .  My  good- 
ness !  what's  gang  wrang  wi'  ye,  child  ?" 

Norah  was  lying  unconscious  on  the  bed,  a  stream  of 
blood  issuing  from  her  lips.  One  pale  white  hand  was 
stretched  over  the  blue  lettering  of  the  blanket,  the  other 
was  doubled  up  under  her  body. 

"Poor  Norah  Ryan !"  exclaimed  Ellen,  opening  the 
window  and  drawing  back  the  clothes  from  the  girl's 
chest.  "It's  the  excitement  that's  done  it.  ...  Wake 
up,  Norah !  It's  me,  Ellen,  that's  speakin'  to  ye.  Ye  ken 
me,  don't  ye  ?" 

She  placed  her  hand  on  Norah's  breast.  Although  her 
hand  had  lost  most  of  its  delicacy  of  touch  she  could  feel 
the  heart  beating  faintly,  almost  like  the  wing  of  a  but- 
terfly flickering  against  the  net  in  which  it  is  imprisoned. 

"She'll  be  better  in  a  wee  meenit!  There,  she's  comin' 
to.  She'll  ken  me  as  soon  as  she  opens  her  eyes!"  said 
Ellen,  and  she  nearly  cried  with  joy. 

In  a  little  while  Norah  recovered  and  looked  round 
with  large,  puzzled  eyes;  then,  as  if  recollecting  some- 
thing— 

"Is  he  comin'?"  she  asked  eagerly,  but  so  softly  that 
Ellen  had  to  bend  down  to  catch  the  words.  "He  was 
the  kind-hearted  boy,  Dermod,"  she  went  on.  "I  always 
liked  him  better  than  anyone,  Ellen.  .  .  .  Twas  the  bad 
girl  that  I  was  .  .  .  and  I'm  a  burden  on  ye  more  than 
on  anyone  else." 

"God  send  that  I  bear  the  burden  for  long  and  many's 
a  day  yet,"  said  the  woman.  "Ye've  been  a  guid  frien' 


314  The  Rat-Pit 

to  me,  Norah,  and  I  feel  happy  workin'  awa  here  by  yer 
side.  Ye'll  get  better  too,  for  when  Dermod  comes  ye'll 
be  happy,  and  the  happy  live  long." 

Norah  put  out  her  hand  and  grasped  that  of  her  friend. 
"God  bless  ye,  Ellen,"  she  said.  "Ye've  been  more'n  a 
mother  to  me.  But  I'm  not  long  for  this  world  now. 
Something  tells  me  that  I'm  for  another  place.  I'm  not 
af eared  to  die,  Ellen;  why  should  I?  But  sorrow  is  on 
me  because  I'm  leavin'  you." 

The  darkness  fell;  the  two  women  were  silent,  their 
hands  clasped  tightly  and  their  eyes  full  of  tears.  But 
with  them  was  a  certain  strange  happiness;  one  bright 
thought  joined  another  bright  thought  in  their  minds 
just  as  the  beams  of  a  newly-lit  fire  join  together  in  a 
darkened  room. 

Norah  fell  asleep.  The  lamp,  which  had  become  leaky, 
had  now  gone  out.  Ellen  lit  a  candle,  stuck  it  into  the 
neck  of  a  bottle  and  placed  the  bottle  on  the  floor.  The 
place  looked  desolate  and  forbidding;  dead  ashes  lay  in 
the  fireplace ;  a  pile  of  rags — Ellen's  bed — lay  in  the  cor- 
ner. There  was  no  picture  in  the  place,  nothing  to  lessen 
the  monotony  save  the  little  crucifix  on  the  mantelpiece, 
and  this  relieving  feature  was  a  symbol  of  sorrow. 

Ellen  glanced  at  the  sleeper.  How  strangely  beautiful 
she  looked  now !  It  seemed  as  if  something  spiritual  and 
divine  had  entered  the  body  of  Norah,  causing  her  to 
look  more  like  the  creation  of  some  delightful  dream 
than  an  erring  human  being  bowed  with  a  weight  of  sor- 
row. 

"I'll  go  out  and  get  some  coals,"  said  Ellen,  speaking 
under  her  breath.  "Then  we'll  have  a  cheerful  fire  for 
Dermod  Flynn  when  he  comes.  He  was  sic  a  comely  lad 
when  in  Jim  Scanlon's  squad.  And  poor  Norah!  Ah! 
it's  sic  a  pity  the  way  things  work  out  in  this  life.  There 
seems  to  be  a  bad  management  of  things  somewhere." 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

THE  FAREWELL    MEETING 


FOR  the  rest  of  that  evening,  between  short  periods 
of  sleep,  one  bright  vision  merged  with  another 
in  front  of  Norah's  eyes,  and  in  every  vision  the 
face  of  Dermod  Flynn  stood  out  distinctly  clear.  She 
spoke  to  him ;  talked  of  home,  of  the  people  whom  both 
had  known,  of  the  master  of  Glenmornan  schoolhouse, 
of  Maire  a  Glan,  of  Micky's  Jim  and  the  squad,  Willie 
the  Duck,  and  all  those  whom  they  had  known  so  well 
a  few  short  years  before.  But  for  all  she  spoke,  Dermod 
never  answered;  he  looked  at  her  in  silence  where  she 
lay,  the  life  passing  from  her  as  a  spent  fountain  weak- 
ens, as  an  echo  dies  away. 

The  candle  threw  out  a  fitful  flame  in  the  room, 
shadows  rushed  together  on  the  ceiling,  forming  and 
breaking  free,  dancing  and  capering  in  strange  antics. 
Steps  could  be  heard  on  the  stairs ;  the  tap  was  running 
outside  and  the  water  fell  with  a  hissing  sound.  Ellen 
was  still  out;  the  room  was  deserted;  nothing  there  but 
the  shadows  on  the  ceiling  and  the  sick  girl  on  the  bed 
by  the  window. 

She  was  asleep  when  Dermod  Flynn  came,  and 
wakened  to  find  him  standing  by  her  bed,  looking  down 
at  her  with  eyes  full  of  love  and  pity.  There  was  no 
surprise  written  on  her  face  when  she  saw  him ;  to  Norah 


3i6  The  Rat-Pit 

for  days  he  had  been  as  near  in  dreams  as  he  was  now 
in  real  flesh  and  blood. 

"I  was  dreamin'  of  ye,  Dermod,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  sitting  up  with  one  elbow  buried  in  the  pillow  and 
her  bare  shoulders  showing  white  and  delicate  under  her 
locks  of  brown  hair. 

"Ye  took  the  good  time  in  comin',"  she  went  on,  but 
there  was  longing,  not  protest,  in  her  voice.  "Ellen  told 
me  that  ye  were  lookin'  for  meself." 

Dermod  was  down  on  his  knees  by  the  bedside.  "  'Tis 
good  to  see  you  again,  darling,"  he  said.  "I  have  been 
looking  for  you  for  such  a  long  time." 

"Have  ye?"  she  asked,  her  voice,  tinged  with  a  thou- 
sand regrets,  rising  a  little  as  if  in  mute  protest,  against 
.the  shadows  dancing  on  the  roof.  Sobbing  like  a  child, 
she  sank  back  in  the  bed.  "It's  the  kindly  way  that  ye 
have  with  ye,  Dermod,"  she  said  in  a  quieter  voice.  "Ye 
don't  know  what  I  am,  and  the  kind  of  life  I've  been 
leadin'  for  a  good  lot  of  years,  to  come  and  speak  to  me 
again.  It's  not  for  a  decent  man  like  yerself  to  speak  to 
the  likes  of  my  kind.  It's  meself  that  has  suffered  a  big 
lot  too,  Dermod,  and  I  deserve  pity  more  than  hate.  Me 
sufferin's  would  have  broke  the  heart  of  a  cold  moun- 
tainy  stone." 

"Poor  Norah!"  Dermod  said,  half  in  whispers;  "well 
do  I  know  what  ye  have  suffered.  I  have  been  looking 
for  you  for  a  long  while,  and  now,  having  found  you,  I 
want  to  make  you  very  happy." 

"Make  me  happy!"  she  exclaimed,  withdrawing  her 
hands  from  Dermod's  grasp  as  if  they  had  been  stung. 
"What  would  ye  be  doin',  wantin'  to  make  me  happy? 
I'm  dead  to  ev'rybody,  to  the  people  at  home  and  to  me 
own  very  mother.  What  would  she  want  with  me  now, 
her  daughter  and  the  mother  of  a  child  that  never  had 
the  priest's  blessin'  on  its  head.  A  child  without  a  law- 


The  Farewell  Meeting          317 

ful  father!  Think  of  it,  Dermod!  What  would  the 
Frosses  and  Glenmornan  people  say  if  they  met  me  now 
on  the  streets  ?  It  was  a  dear  child  to  me,  it  was.  And 
ye  are  wantin'  to  make  me  happy !  Every  time  ye  come 
ye  say  the  same.  .  .  .  D'ye  mind  seein'  me  on  the  streets, 
Dermod?" 

"I  remember  it,  Norah." 

He  looked  at  her  closely,  puzzled  no  doubt  by  her 
utterances.  She  was  now  rambling  a  little  again.  Dreams 
intermingled  with  reality  and  her  ringers  were  making 
folds  in  the  sheets.  Dermod  remembered  how  in  Glen- 
mornan this  was  considered  a  sign  of  death.  She  began 
to  talk  to  herself,  her  head  on  the  pillow,  one  erring  tress 
of  hair  lying  across  her  cheek. 

"It  was  the  child,  Dermod,"  she  said,  a  smile  playing 
over  her  features ;  "it  was  the  little  boy  and  he  was  dyin', 
both  of  a  cough  that  was  stickin'  in  his  throat  and  of 
starvation.  As  for  meself,  I  hadn't  seen  bread  or  that 
what  buys  it  for  many's  a  long  hour,  even  for  days  itself. 
I  couldn't  get  work  to  do.  I  would  beg,  aye,  Dermod,  I 
would,  and  me  a  Frosses  woman,  but  I  was  afeared  that 
the  peelis  would  put  me  in  prison.  In  the  end  there  was 
nothin'  left  to  me  but  to  take  to  the  streets.  .  .  .  There 
were  long  white  boats  goin'  out  and  we  were  watchin' 
them  from  the  strand  of  Trienna  Bay.  The  boats  of  our 
own  people.  Ah!  my  own  townland,  Dermod!  ...  I 
called  the  little  child  Dermod,  but  he  never  got  the  chris- 
tenin'  words  said  over  him,  nor  a  drop  of  holy  water. 
.  .  .  Where  is  Ellen?  .  .  .  Ellen,  ye're  a  good  friend  to 
me,  ye  are!  The  people  that's  sib  to  myself  don't  care 
what  happens  to  me,  one  of  their  own  kind;  but  it's  ye 
yerself  that  has  the  good  heart,  Ellen.  And  ye  say  that 
Dermod  Flynn  is  comin'  to  see  me?  I  would  like  to  see 
Dermod  again." 

"I'm  here,  Norah,"  said  the  young  man,  endeavouring 


3i8  The  Rat-Pit 

by  his  voice  to  recall  her  straying  fancy.  "I'm  here, 
Norah.  I'm  Dermod  Flynn.  Do  ye  know  me  now  ?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Norah,  do  ye  remember  me?"  Dermod  repeated.  "I 
am  Dermod — Dermod  Flynn.  Say  'Dermod'  after  me." 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him  with  a  puzzled 
glance.  "Is  it  ye  indeed,  Dermod?"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
knew  that  ye  were  comin'  to  see  me.  I  was  thinkin'  of 
ye  often,  and  many's  the  time  I  thought  that  ye  were 
standin'  by  me  bed  quiet  like  and  takin'  a  look  at  me. 
Ye're  here  now,  are  ye  ?  Say  'True  as  death.' " 

"True  as  death !" 

"But  where  is  Ellen?"  she  asked,  "and  where  is  the 
man  that  came  here  this  mornin',  and  left  a  handful  of 
money  to  help  us  along  ?  He  was  a  good,  kindly  man ; 
talkin'  about  fives  too,  just  the  same  as  Micky's  Jim. 
Joe  was  his  name." 

She  paused. 

"There  were  three  men  on  the  street  and  they  made 
fun  of  me  when  I  was  passin'  them,"  she  went  on. 
"Then  they  made  a  rush  at  me,  threw  me  down  and 
tramped  over  me.  I  was  left  on  the  cold  streets,  lyin' 
like  to  die  and  no  one  to  help  me.  'Twas  Ellen  that 
picked  me  up,  and  she  has  been  a  good  friend  to  me  ever 
since ;  sittin'  up  at  night  by  my  side  and  workin'  her  fin- 
gers to  the  bone  for  me  through  the  livelong  day.  Ellen, 
ye're  very  good  to  me." 

"Ellen  isn't  here,"  Dermod  said,  the  tears  running 
down  his  cheeks.  With  clumsy  but  tender  fingers  he 
brushed  back  the  hair  from  her  brow  and  listened  to  her 
talk  as  one  listens  to  the  sound  of  a  lonely  breeze,  the 
mind  deep  in  unfathomable  reflections. 

Gourock  Ellen  entered  the  room  and  cast  a  curious 
look  round.  Seeing  Dermod  kneeling  at  the  bedside  the 
woman  felt  herself  an  intruder.  She  came  forward, 


The  Farewell  Meeting         319 

however,  and  bent  over  the  girl,  her  shoulder  touching 
the  head  of  the  young  man. 

Norah's  eyes  were  closed  and  a  pallor  overspread  her 
features. 

"Are  ye  asleep,  lassie?" 

There  was  no  answer  to  her  question ;  the  woman  bent 
closer  and  pressed  Norah's  breast  with  her  hand. 

"Are  ye  come  back,  Ellen?"  Norah  asked  without 
opening  her  eyes.  "I  was  dreamin'  in  the  same  old  way," 
she  went  on.  "I  saw  him  comin'  back  again.  He  was 
standin'  by  me  bed  and  he  was  very  kind  like  he  always 
was." 

"But  he's  here,  little  lass,"  said  Ellen,  turning  to  Der- 
mod  Flynn.  "Speak  to  her,  man,"  she  whispered.  "She's 
been  wearin'  her  heart  away  for  you,  for  a  long  weary 
while.  Speak  to  her  and  we'll  save  her  yet.  She's  just 
wanderin'  in  her  head." 

Norah  opened  her  eyes ;  the  candle  was  going  out  and 
Dermod  could  mark  the  play  of  light  and  shade  on  the 
girl's  face. 

"Then  it  was  not  dreamin'  that  I  was!"  she  cried. 
"It's  Dermod  himself  that's  in  it  and  back  again.  Just 
comin'  to  see  me !  It's  himself  that  has  the  kindly  Glen- 
mornan  heart  and  always  had.  Dermod,  Dermod !  I  have 
a  lot  to  speak  to  ye  about !" 

Her  voice  became  strained ;  to  speak  cost  her  an  effort, 
and  Dermod,  who  had  risen,  bent  down  to  catch  her 
words. 

"It  was  ye  that  I  was  thinkin'  of  all  the  time,  and  I 
was  foolish  when  I  was  workin'  in  Micky's  Jim's  squad. 
It's  all  my  fault  and  sorrow  is  on  me  because  I  made  you 
suffer.  Maybe  ye'll  go  home  some  day.  If  ye  do,  go  to 
me  mother's  house  and  ask  her  to  forgive  me.  Tell  her 
that  I  died  on  the  year  I  left  Micky's  Jim's  squad.  I  was 
not  me  mother's  child  after  that;  I  was  dead  to  all  the 


320  The  Rat-Pit 

world.  My  fault  could  not  be  undone ;  that's  what  made 
the  blackness  of  it.  Never  let  yer  own  sisters  go  to  the 
strange  country,  Dermod,  never  let  them  go  to  the  po- 
tato squad,  for  it's  the  place  that  is  evil  for  a  girl  like  me 
that  hasn't  much  sense.  .  .  .  Ye're  not  angry  with  me, 
Dermod,  are  ye?" 

"Norah,  I  was  never  angry  with  you,"  said  the  young 
man,  and  he  kissed  her.  "You  don't  think  that  I  was 
angry  with  you  ?" 

"No,  Dermod,  for  it's  yerself  that  has  the  kindly  way," 
said  the  poor  girl.  "Would  ye  do  something  for  me  if 
ever  ye  go  back  to  yer  own  place  ?" 

"Anything  you  ask,"  Dermod  answered,  "and  anything 
within  my  power  to  do." 

"Will  ye  hev  a  mass  said  for  me  in  the  chapel  at 
home;  a  mass  for  the  repose  of  me  soul?"  she  asked. 
"If  ye  do  I'll  be  very  happy." 

These  were  Norah  Ryan's  last  words.  As  she  spoke 
she  looked  at  Gourock  Ellen,  and  by  a  sign  expressed  a 
wish  to  speak  to  her.  She  sat  up  in  bed,  but,  as  she 
opened  her  mouth,  shivered  as  if  with  cold,  looked  at 
Ellen  with  sad,  blank  eyes  and  dropped  back  on  the  pil- 
low. Dermod  and  Ellen  stooped  forward,  not  knowing 
what  to  do,  but  feeling  that  they  should  do  something. 
The  girl  was  still  looking  upwards  at  the  shadows  on  the 
ceiling,  but  seeing  far  beyond.  Then  her  eyes  closed 
slowly,  like  those  of  a  child  that  falls  into  a  peaceful 
sleep. 

Norah  Ryan  was  dead. 


THE    END 


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